The Runner
by Sashax
Summary: Darkness. Loud noises. Pain. Unconsciousness. Those are the words Thomas would use to describe his first ever memory. What was the memory about? Waking up in a death trap. - If you're lucky, then you're one of the Highs. If you're one of the Highs, it's quite likely you're a Runner. And what do the Runners do all day? They guard The Death Circle. Welcome to the Glade.
1. Chapter 1

A/N. Hello all! The story you're about to read is quite long, which is why I'll tell you a few things up front. You know, so you wouldn't have to waste a bunch of your time on this only to realise it isn't what you're looking for.

The story is from Thomas' point of view all the way through. You will not see anyone else's POV. It's in third person, past tense. This is important: Newtmas is very slow to happen. Both of them are quite traumatised from their pasts, and I personally don't see how the two would get together any sooner that they do in this scenario. There are no violent fight scenes or anything like that in this fic. To be honest, it would be rated PG if not for Thomas constant swearing in the first third of the story. (All he does is drop a few f-bombs, really.)

The idea is similar to the original one. The boys are trapped in the Glade and there's no way out. However, some things have been changed, and I'm sure you'll notice them while you're reading. I thought I'd mix it up a little bit, haha. I also suggest to ignore the author's notes because every now and then I mention things that are about to come in future chapters but end up not happening because I've decided to either cut them or present them in a different manner. Which reminds me: if you're looking for a blushing and stuttering little Newt here, you're in the wrong place.

* * *

A low groan escaped the boy's lips a second after he hit his head against something cold and hard. His hand flew up to touch the spot which now throbbed in pain, but luckily, his fingers couldn't find any traces of blood.

 _Okay, relax. I'm fine._ As he lowered his hand and tried to stand up on his somewhat shaky legs, his eyes opened in hopes of figuring out where the fuck he was and why. He regretted it a mere moment later. A highly uncomfortable sensation hit his eyes at once, as if dozens of tiny needles had made it their mission to poke his eyeballs out of their sockets.

In the following two seconds that he managed to look around, he noticed two important things in succession. First, darkness surrounded him from all sides, not even the smallest specks of light making an appearance anywhere. Second, the first statement proved wrong—white, fiery particles came out of what seemed to be the room's walls, illuminating the whole place enough for him to realise he was in a lift of sorts, the kind of a lift that people used way back.

He closed his eyes with perhaps a bit too much force, but he didn't care; he just couldn't keep them open for any longer. What felt like tears formed behind his eyelids and—no. They weren't tears, couldn't have been; they didn't seem right... He would've even gone as far as to say they consisted of a substance thicker than water, if only just. The feeling wasn't by any means good, and he wanted it out of his eyes, fast.

But that was out of the question because opening his eyes would've been far worse than just tolerating the strange liquid. His hands clenched into tight fists, and he swallowed hard, only now sensing the fluid was in his mouth, too. Although it seemed to have no taste whatsoever, and it refused to leave his mouth for good, the act of swallowing did help him with one thing.

His sense of hearing. Perhaps his ears had been plugged or perhaps the action itself had somehow drawn his subconscious' attention to the abnormally quiet world around him, but the point remained the same: whatever had happened, his hearing was back.

Sound crashed into him with full force, almost knocking him back down again. It seemed impossible he hadn't heard the loud, scratchy noise before that particular moment. But it made sense. He had established the fact he was in a lift seconds earlier, so it shouldn't have come as that big of a surprise to him.

Another few seconds passed before it hit him. _I'm stuck in a moving lift, and I'm not even sure if it's going up or down. How did I even get in here?!_

His breaths became shallow, and his heartbeat sped up as his mind went into panic mode. _Oh my fucking God, the lift's gonna crash, isn't it? That's why there were sparks coming from the walls..._

 _I'm gonna die._

Everything went blank for a while. The next thing he knew, his fingers hurt like hell and probably bled from trying to break free from the death trap he was in. The walls were made of metal, so his pathetic fingers couldn't have possibly done any damage to it, but that specific part didn't register in his mind.

The sparks hurt as they hit his hands, his fingernails were in a horrid condition, and he felt light-headed. He couldn't remember the exact moment when he passed out.

"D'you think he's alive?"

"Of course he's alive, you shuck-face! Have they ever sent up a dead kid?"

"…well, yes, yes they have."

"What the–"

"Relax, he's just messing with you."

"No… I'm not. I've been here for a long shuck time, and I'm telling you that–"

"Slim it! I think he's waking up."

Silence.

"Guys, maybe he really is dead?"

"No, he's n–"

"But look at his hands! They're covered with bl–"

"You should go down and look for his pulse."

"Me?! Why don't you go and–"

"Because I don't–"

A sigh could be heard. "Step aside, you bloody cowards."

Another silence erupted as somebody made their way towards the seemingly lifeless body.

Just moments later, a soft thump was heard.

"Yeah, he's alive all right," said the same voice after placing two fingers on the boy's neck. "But his pulse is a little too weak… Hmph. I think we should take him to the Den. Where's Clint?"

For no obvious reason, the boy's fingers dug even more to the unconscious one's neck. "Oh my– Guys! The pulse's becoming weaker! Where the HELL is Clint?!"

.oOo.

 _Wow, that sure was one hell of a dream_ , thought the boy first thing upon waking up. _Can't remember the last time I saw anything like it… I've always been able to move– wait. Have I?_

His heart skipped a beat when he tried to recall any actual memories of ever even seeing a dream. He knew for a fact that he indeed had seen them before, but he just couldn't bring himself to think of any particular dreams.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the unimportant thoughts, and opened his eyes. For one reason or another, he had half expected to be blinded by the light above. He quickly realised it wasn't going to happen – there were no lamps in sight and barely enough light for him to be able to look around.

With a groan, he brought his hands up to rub his eyes, hoped it'd help to sharpen his sight. HIs head hurt. But it was more like in a good way; the way one feels after waking from a long, refreshing sleep.

He blinked a few times in hopes of making those annoying little black dots go away. He let his hands fall back down, only to feel a sharp pain in his chest. The f–

"Hey there, Greenie. You scared us pretty bad out there, you know, with the dying and whatnot. You might wanna not do that again anytime soon."

He hadn't realised anyone else was in the room with him, so naturally, his first reaction was to jump. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, trying his best to not let the other boy become aware of his surprise. "And where the hell am I?"

In the dark, it was pretty difficult to make out where the voice was coming from, but somehow he managed to do just that. The boy stood just a couple of meters away, his back against the wall and his arms crossed. Despite his attempt to give off vibes of intimidation, it seemed impossible for anyone to be afraid of him. His height couldn't have been more than 160 cm, and judging by his posture, he felt pretty uneasy himself.

"We'll get to that in a minute. But first, what's your name?"

The boy in bed felt the need to sit up straighter. However, before he could even move himself properly, the pain in his chest worsened, convincing him to give up on that idea. "My– What's this got to do with anything?"

Shortie came a few steps closer, his eyes never leaving the other one's. "Just answer the question, alright? What's your name?" With every sentence spoken, he seemed to gain more confidence.

It still wasn't enough to intimidate anyone, though.

"God, I wake up in a creepy-looking room, and instead of telling me what has happened, you ask for my name? Don't you think there are, oh I don't know, a few slightly more important matters to discuss? Like why the fuck I'm injured? Or where I am?" He stared into Shortie's eyes, eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer. Shortie stared back. "Okay, fine. Not that it's any of your business, but my name's…" Blank. "My name's…" He shook his head violently, trying to come up with something, anything, but nothing came. _How can I not remember my own name?_

"Yeah, I figured that much. But we have to call you something until you... you know. How about Thomas? That sound good?"

The boy – Thomas – gave him a slight nod. What else was he supposed to do? How could Shortie take his memory loss so easily? As if it was normal?

"That's great because you wouldn't have had a choice in the matter anyway. Moving on - since you can't remember your own name, you probably don't remember anything else, either, right?" He sat on a chair Thomas hadn't noticed was beside his bed, rested his hands on his knees, and looked at him expectantly.

Shortie must've been fourteen, fifteen the most. He had dark skin, black hair, and the lightest shade of brown eyes Thomas had ever seen. It almost made him want to ask if he was wearing contacts.

Thomas searched his mind for an answer; he hoped to find even the tiniest memory of anything, really, but didn't succeed. He shook his head in confusion, and asked the same question that had been circling his head for a while now. "What's wrong with me? Why can't I remember anything? Did I have a concussion or–"

"Hey, it's okay," said Shortie. "There's nothing wrong with y– Don't give me that look; just hear me out, okay? There's nothing wrong with you because," he made a small pause before continuing, "nobody who ever comes here remembers anything." His eyes scanned Thomas'. "I know, it's weird as hell, but that's just the way things are."

Thomas tried to distract his panicky mind— _what kind of a place is this? Is he lying to me? Am I in a reality TV show? I am, aren't I?_ —by examining his surroundings. He himself was on a bed of sorts, but that much he had already figured out earlier. The room was quite small, as it only had room for his bed, a chair, and one weak-looking table. The room was made of… wood? Sticks? There was no window; the small amount of light in it must've come from the cracks in the wall. And then there was that boy.

"But on the bright side," tried the said boy to continue the conversation, "your name'll come back to you in a few days, so don't worry 'bout it much, okay?"

"What's your name, though? You still haven't told me." _Not that I particularly care._

Shortie cracked a smile. Though, he still seemed a bit tense. "I guess I did forgot to mention it, didn't I? I'm Clint."

"Oh," was all Thomas managed to say. He had a ton of—ones that were much more important than Shortie's name—but he didn't know where to start.

"So do you–"

"Why does my–" began Thomas at the same time Shortie did.

Shortie nodded. "You first."

Thomas couldn't help but feel awkward. "Why… why does my chest hurt? I mean, every time I move, I feel these spikes of pain...?"

The smile on Shortie's face faltered and then disappeared altogether. "Er, yeah, about that. Ah, how should I say this… You sorta like… stopped breathing at one point and um… we had to somehow get you breathing again, you know?"

"So, what you're saying is that…"

"We may have damaged a couple of ribs of yours, yeah. I'm real sorry 'bout that, but we figured you with broken ribs is better than you with no pulse."

"I agree with you on that one," said Thomas while moving his gaze away from him. _Did I really stop breathing? Why?_

"Wh–why did I quit breathing the first place? Was something blocking my airways or...?"

"No, nothing like that. To be honest, we aren't sure what happened – one moment you were breathing and the next you weren't – but you were hella lucky we noticed it as fast as we did."

"Yeah, well–"

A door slammed shut somewhere close by. Thomas' eyes fell first on the room's door, then on Shortie. The latter cast a nervous glance towards the door. "I– I should probably go. You need some rest anyways, so I'll just…" He stood up and left the room before Thomas could've come up with anything to say.

Why did he get so nervous all of a sudden? _Is he in trouble?_

"Clint," said a deep voice.

"Gally," answered Shortie, his tone icy cold.

Thomas wasn't stupid; he knew he faked it, tried to put on a tough act. Because try as he might, he couldn't keep the slight quiver from his voice.

A groan. "The name's Galileo, shuck-face. You know that as well as anyone."

By the silence and a barely audible gasp for air that ensued, Thomas found it likely this Gally guy had hit Shortie. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He was torn between jumping out of his bed and going out there to see what was going on and staying where he was in case either of them would say something that'd help him to understand the situation.

"Get up! It's time we get moving."

Clint mumbled something in response, and on that second, Thomas flew off his bed. Adrenaline helped him to ignore the pain completely, and he didn't even notice he didn't have a shirt on.

He opened the room's door on the moment the front door closed.

He'd missed his chance.


	2. Chapter 2

Against all the odds, Thomas was finally dozing off. He could've sworn he saw the first signs of a dream approaching when somebody walked into his room. And coughed.

"Are you awake?" asked a voice. Although it sounded masculine, the speaker couldn't have been older than thirteen.

"Sure am now." Thomas blinked a few times and rubbed off the sleep from his eyes. Once finished, his gaze caught a glimpse of a figure who hadn't been there before.

A chubby boy stood a few meters away, his curly hair a rather interesting sight - some curls hanged low, barely earning themselves the name of a curl, but a few others were cut so short, they made it look like a bird had made a nest there. Despite the abomination that was his hair, his posture expressed friendliness.  
"Great! I came here to give you something," Curly said while holding up a bag of...

"Bottles? What for? I don't think I need that much to drink."

With a roll of his eyes, Curly threw the bag, which on a closer look turned out to be self-made, onto the bed. The bottles rolled out; a couple of them fell on the floor. Thomas counted eight on his bed and two on the ground.

Curly's nose scrunched up, indicating he hadn't meant for it to happen. "They're filled with cold water, but I wouldn't drink them if I were you; they taste horrible. Anyways. You're supposed to put them on your chest, you know, so it'd stop hurting so much."

Thomas nodded; it made sense. He grabbed a bottle closest to him, examined it from all sides. He couldn't see inside the bottle, and he didn't like it at all; he would've preferred to know what exactly the polka-dotted bottle contained. "But why bottles? Why not ice or frozen peas?"

"Because," Curly said, walking towards the only chair in the room, "we don't have those things up here." His shoulders twitched as if he wanted to shrug but changed his mind in the last second. He sat down on the fragile-looking chair and leaned into it.

 _Fair enough_. Now that the conversation had somewhat ceased, Thomas debated on whether or not he should take off his shirt and test out those bottles. He didn't even care about Curly being there; he just wanted to ease the pain in his chest. So far, he'd tried to not think about the pain, tried to push it into the back of his mind. The truth, however, was that he would've very much liked to feel normal again. _Again? I don't even remember the last time my chest wasn't aching._

"Why are you looking so... lost?"

Thomas's gaze fell upon Curly. How on Earth should he answer that question? Where should he start? "It's just... Everything's really confusing. I can't remember anything, and it's making me—how should I say this—a little uneasy, you know?

Curly shifted in his seat. "I know what you feel, yeah. The first few weeks are always the hardest here, but you'll get used to it. Eventually."

"About that... where am I?" Thomas asked, relieved he finally got to voice the question out loud. It'd been bugging him for a while now.

Curly looked like he had swallowed a surprisingly sour grape. "Well, we call it the Glade. But please, don't ask anything else about it. I'm not sure I'm the right person to talk about this."

"What do you mean you're not the right person to talk about this? What does it matter who tells me—"

In an obvious attempt to change the topic, Curly cut him off. "I'm Chuck. What's your name?"

A line appeared between Thomas' brows. "I'm... Thomas," he finally said, his tone cold. He wasn't going to push the topic, but the sudden turn in the conversation did bring his mood down.

Thomas' tone had no effect on Chuck. The latter's eyes widened, and he raised his eyebrows. "How can you not remember your name? Still?"

Wha— How did he know it wasn't his real name? And what did he mean by still? ...did it mean it should've come back to him by now?  
He asked those exact questions from the said kid himself, seeing as there was no other way of getting them answered.

"Well," Chuck started, making himself more comfortable in his seat, "first of all, everyone who doesn't remember their name gets automatically named Thomas until they finally do. Second of all, you've been out for like 14 hours, and people usually know their own name by the end of their first day. Hell, they know it even before that."

Thomas nodded, tried to take it all in. He didn't like what he heard. "But for some people it takes longer, right?"

"I guess so."

That wasn't particularly encouraging.

Chuck stood up and stretched. "I think I should go now... It was nice talking to you and all, but I have some things that I need to do."  
Thomas was taken aback by Curly's abrupt idea of leaving—he had hoped he could press more information out of him. "Yeah, okay. Um, I'll see you around?"  
Curly gave a nod, turned his back to Thomas, and walked straight out of the door.

Not even a second passed before Thomas realised he couldn't let him leave; he'd forgot to ask him perhaps what was the most important question of them all. "Hey, Chuck?" he yelled after him, his face distorting into a grimace as he did so. Apparently, it hurt to make loud noises.

"What?" Chuck asked. He opened the door and poked his head inside.

Thomas' eyes met Chuck's. He grabbed a handful of the blanket and squeezed it. "Do you know— Could I have something to eat? I'm quite literally starving right now."  
Chuck made a face. "Uh, sure, I can bring you some leftovers, I guess."

"Thanks, dude." Thomas' hold of the blanket stayed firm.

The door closed with a _thump_.  
He let go of the soft fabric one finger at a time.

All the important questions he hadn't asked from Chuck flooded his mind. Why the fuck didn't he remember anything? What was this Glade thing? Why was he there? What happened with Clint? Where was he now?

His left hand raked through his hair in an attempt to calm him down. _I don't even know what colour my hair is. I don't know how tall I am, what's my eye-colour, how I look like in general..._  
How could it all be possible? Clint had said nobody remembered anything about their pasts... How? Why? How come nobody had been sent to him already to explain everything? You'd think if you one day woke up in the randomest and strangest of places, others would want you to know what was going on, so you wouldn't lose your mind trying to figure it all out by yourself. But wait. Perhaps they did want him to figure everything out on his own. Perhaps they wanted him to leave this tiny and somewhat constricting room behind and go on a trip of discovery.

The more Thomas thought about it, the more likely it seemed.

"I'm back," stated a voice a moment before the door opened.

Thomas snapped out of his thoughts. "Did you get anything?"

"I did my best, but," Curly walked over to Thomas and handed him a bowl, "that's all I got."

Thomas reached his hands out and grabbed the bowl, lowered it slowly onto his lap. Mashed potatoes with something that vaguely reminded of sauce. "That's perfect, thank you," he said, staring at the food instead of Chuck. He grabbed the spoon from the edge of the bowl and took his first mouthful. It didn't taste half as bad as it looked. "So," began Thomas once he got done with the chewing, "I have a question. What happened to Clint? Is he okay?" He didn't look up as he took his second spoonful.

"Why do you ask? Of course he's okay." Chuck's voice fell completely emotionless; nothing could be read out of it.

"I don't know; some guy named Gally—"

"His name's Galileo," interrupted Chuck, "not Gally."

Thomas gave him a look, made eye-contact with him for the first time since he'd come back. "Isn't that his nickname or something?"

Chuck fidgeted with his fingers. Something was up. "Well, technically it is, but—"

"Then what's the problem? Doesn't he like his nick—"

"As I was saying," Chuck's eyebrows knitted together, "he really hates it when people call him that. Actually, he hates nicknames in general, so he made it a rule that everybody must be called by their 'actual name'. Can you believe that? Nobody's allowed to—"

Okay, so this Gally guy must've been the boss around here. "Isn't Chuck a nickname?"

Chuck stood still for a good ten seconds. "It's—uh—difficult to explain. I'm sorry, I have to go. I really have some things that I need to do, so." With that, Chuck turned and left for the second time that evening. Or night. Or whatever it was.

Thomas sat there, a bowl in front of him, as confused as ever.

.oOo.

Thomas made an interesting, yet obvious, discovery: it hurt a lot less when he didn't move his upper body. He also figured, to his dismay, that he should've come upon that realisation earlier; it would've saved him ten minutes of pure suffering.

Carefully, he made his way towards the door. However, before he could get through even half of the way, he stumbled. His hands flew out to his sides, tried to help him regain his balance.

But it hurt. It hurt a shit ton because the act of almost falling had forced him to move the only part of his body he preferred not to move under any circumstances.  
It was as if life was making fun of him.

After what felt like an eternity, Thomas succeeded in his task and stood up straight. His eyebrows furrowed in slight anger and annoyance. "Come here, you stupid thing," he mumbled under his breath, trying to find the thing that had caused him so much discomfort. His feet searched the ground, albeit slowly; he had no intention of falling over the same thing twice.

 _Aha!_ His left foot found the object it'd been looking for. He crouched down to pick it up.

A shoe. He had nearly tripped because of a fucking shoe. The situation at hand was amusing and infuriating at the same time.

 _Maybe these shoes are meant for me?_ he thought. _Yeah, must be. I don't think they just leave them at random places for shits and giggles. Now, where's the other one?_

After closing the room's door behind him, he wasn't surprised to find himself from a long, dark corridor. He didn't mind; he liked darkness. Or he thought he did.  
The shadows didn't look the least bit intimidating—they seemed... comforting, if anything.

As Thomas walked, his right hand tracing the wall next to him, a thought that had been nagging him at the back of his mind finally became clear enough to put into words. _How can there be shadows if there's no light?_

Thomas' pace slowed, but he didn't stop, no. What would the point in that be? His gaze wandered all over the place until he figured it out. The light came from the outside, just behind the wall to his left. If he looked closely, which he did, he could see a lighter spot every now and then, indicating there had to be some kind of a lamp on the other side.

His fingertips cried out in protest when they hit a small bump on the wall. A door. Thomas would've liked to examine his fingers more closely—he had a feeling they shouldn't have been hurting nearly as much as they did—but he didn't even try, as he knew there wasn't enough light for him to properly see.

He ignored the door and continued his way—his gut told him this wasn't the door he could get out from—the only difference being that now his fingers barely brushed against the uneven material. More doors passed by, but Thomas didn't even try to open any of them. No, his goal was the door the farthest away, exactly at the end of the corridor.

To be honest, he wasn't sure how he knew he should move in that direction. He wasn't sure how he knew the other doors were not what he searched for. But he paid those thoughts little to no attention.

Thomas pushed the final door open, and a soft summer breeze greeted him gently by ruffling his hair. A feeling of calm and relaxation came over him, as if the wind itself had whispered words of encouragement into his ear.

He looked around.

There was a building of sorts about twenty meters away, right in front of him. The only reason he saw it was the fact a couple of lanterns were hanging from the roof somehow, illuminating the house and the immediate surroundings.

But that wasn't what made Thomas squint his eyes in disbelief and confusion. The house was tilted in an odd angle, positively giving the feeling it was about to collapse soon. It reminded Thomas of those dilapidated houses which could usually be found in smaller areas.

Maybe the building was abandoned?

No. A quick look around told that the other houses were in a similar state, perhaps only in a slightly better condition. And again, he was only able to see the houses because of the lanterns. He itched to know why the people living here found it important to light up the place. Shouldn't they sleep at night?

On a whim, Thomas walked off to the left, studied the surroundings. The buildings were oddly far from each other and there was no particular order in their locations. It was as if they were built at random, to the place that seemed the best fit.

The ground he walked on was, surprisingly, made of stone. Not asphalt, not soil, stone. Giant stone blocks, to be specific.

The farther he went, the less buildings he met on the way. The road he walked on could still be seen quite clearly, as the lanterns placed every ten meters or so gave away enough light. Most of the time, at any rate. Unfortunately, there were no clocks lying around, and he couldn't be sure of the time. Not knowing it irritated him more than it probably should've.

But what irritated him the most was not knowing how he—and all the other people living here, if Clint had told him the truth—had managed to forget nearly everything.  
True, he remembered the basics. He knew how to walk and talk, and he knew how tiny humans were made. What he lacked of, though, were specific memories. For example, he had no recollection of ever eating anything. Of course, he wouldn't be alive if he hadn't eaten anything for all his life, but he just couldn't picture himself eating any foods.

"Hey, what are you doing out here so late?" shouted a voice from somewhere behind him.

Thomas jumped—he couldn't help it—and looked back. He couldn't make out any specifics, but there was a boy about fifteen meters away.

Oh-uh. Was he in trouble? Wasn't he allowed to be outside?

Electricity flew through his veins, gave him the rush of energy he desperately needed. _You won't catch me._ He took a deep breath in and ran away from the approaching boy. _You won't._

The stranger shouted for Thomas to stop. Thomas didn't comply. Instead, he focused on his breathing, made sure it was steady and even. _The key is in the breathing; if I screw it up, I'm toast._ As he gained more speed, the lantern lights morphed into colourful bubbles of colour, and the only thing he could see clearly was the road ahead. Focus.

 _This can't go on forever_ , he thought some time later. _Even if I can outrun him, he's much more familiar with this place; he'll find me eventually. I need to hide._  
Thomas risked a look to his sides, only hoping he wouldn't fall in those seconds he didn't pay attention to the road. Although the lanterns' lights did their best to stop him from seeing much, he did gather enough to understand he was near a forest. Considering the circumstances, this was likely the best possible thing to discover.

 _I'll make a sharp turn in about twenty meters; he won't see it coming. Wait, no. I have to know where he is right now in order to pull this off. Maybe he's right behind me and I have no idea... This wouldn't do. Okay, on three. One. Two._

 _Three._

With a swift motion, Thomas turned himself to face the stranger, running now back-first, his pace slowing considerably. To his relief, the shadow had fallen behind, which meant there was plenty of distance between them for him to pull this off. Good. He didn't even bother with turning back around; he dashed towards the forest at once.

Or, well, he would've done that, had his back not crashed into something cold and hard. The adrenaline pumping in his veins prevented him from feeling any physical pain, but that didn't stop him from getting all the air forced out of his lungs. He hit his head against the uneven material a fraction of a second later. _I bet this is gonna hurt like hell later._

But he had no time to waste. He rocketed away from the wall—because that's what it was, a wall—and dashed towards the forest, properly this time.

"Hey, wait up! I'm not gonna hurt," pause, "you! I just want to," another pause, "talk!"

Thomas didn't even consider it an option to stop. No way. Not when he'd already come this far.

.oOo.

For Thomas' mild surprise, running through the dark forest turned out to be far more difficult than he'd anticipated. The branches tug at his clothes and scratched his skin, and since the ground had apparently changed into soil—he had no idea when that'd happened—he was in constant fear of falling down. The ground was uneven, and different plants made it difficult for Thomas to maneuver. His gaze moved around frantically; he had to find a hiding spot while staying balanced on his two feet.  
There! A large tree surrounded by bushes. He jumped over the bushes to get to the tree itself and succeeded. As fast as he could, Thomas slid down the trunk. Once sat down, he brought his right hand up to cover his mouth; his breathing made too much noise.

Ten seconds passed, then twenty. Thomas' breaths came out short and and quiet, exactly like he wanted. He didn't dare to move, didn't want to bring any unnecessary attention on him. The seconds became minutes. _Where is he? Did I lose him?_

A loud _snap!_ echoed through the woods, the distinct sound of somebody stepping on a twig and breaking it. Thomas' heart nearly jumped out of his chest when he heard it. _Okay, I get it, you're here, you sneaky little bastard! No need to scare me like that._ He listened closely for any more sounds. Nothing.

As more minutes passed by, he began doubting his earlier judgement. It was a forest, after all, so perhaps there had been some kind of a wild animal running around? A hedgehog, maybe? Or a fox?

"Gotcha!"


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas' head snapped towards the direction the sound came from. His widened eyes searched the surroundings while his body forced itself tighter against the tree behind him. The rough bark hurt his back. His fingers dug into the ground, tried to find something he could throw at the ominous shadow. Nothing. _Dammit_.

Barely a second had passed; it seemed much longer than that. The time probably realised it wasn't supposed to work like that—wasn't supposed to shatter into tiny, hour-long moments—and hid its blunder by acting like nothing had ever happened. The shadow let out a joyful laugh.

Thomas blinked, confused, but gathered himself quickly. He prepared to ask a question that would for sure buy him some time.

"Wow," said the shadow instead, not letting Thomas form a single sentence, "It's sure been a long time since I've had this much fun."

Thomas stood up, careful to stay in one place and not move even a centimeter towards the stranger. "At least one of us is having a good time," he said, his heart beating like it had when he was running for his life.

"Oh, come on! You gotta admit, it was quite..." The stranger stepped closer, right into a spot illuminated by the moon. "Wait. You're not Henry."

The moonlight certainly did the boy no justice. His cheekbones were rather prominent and his skin glowed porcelain white; the eyelashes' shadows moved under his eyes whenever he blinked. In one word, he looked like a ghost.

Thomas, despite being confused and, on some level, terrified, cocked an eyebrow. "No, I'm not. Now that we've come to this amazing conclusion—"

"You're the new shank. Thomas."

Thomas crossed his arms. "Yeah, so?"

"What are you doing out here?" the stranger asked, imitating Thomas' posture. "You shouldn't be wandering around, all alone. Especially in the middle of the night." All the humour left his voice, and by the looks of it, it didn't plan on returning anytime soon. "Come, let's get you out of here." He gave no indication of actually wanting to move.

Thomas shook his head. "Why should I come with you? I don't trust you." _Besides, I've been stuck at that room for the whole day now, and I'm not going back._

"Listen, I don't—I don't care if you trust me or not, okay? We— _you_ —have to go back, right now. You absolutely do not want to wander out here during these hours."

"Shouldn't I have the liberty of making my own decis—"

The stranger made a sudden reach for Thomas' arm, but Thomas moved away before it could happen. "I'm telling you, we—"

Their eyes met. Or not. It was too dark to be sure. Either way, one thing captured Thomas' interest, something he hadn't noticed before. The fact the stranger stood a good five centimeters higher than he did. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why it bothered him as much as it did. _God, what's wrong with me. Of all the things..._

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Thomas said slowly, still trying to shake off the odd feeling, "so you might as well leave me be." Having said that, he walked past him, shouldering him in the process.

The stranger caught up with him in a matter of seconds and grabbed his arm. "You're going back to the Med-room, and I don't give a klunk whether or not you want to." His grip was strong, stronger than Thomas would've expected, and he pulled Thomas along as he walked into a seemingly random direction. "Nobody is allowed to be wandering around the place at night, you got that? You'll do well to wait until dawn before you poke your nose out of your room."

An unexpected urge to roll his eyes came over him. All the fear from before had vanished; the blond didn't frighten him. In fact, he could get his arm loose if he'd kick him with his right leg. And should it grow into a fight, Thomas would probably win. However, before he could put his plan into action, they exited the forest. The lanterns shone bright and blinded him. _Were we really this close to the road the whole time? Really? I would've thought we were a lot farther away._ The only logical conclusion was that they came out from a different place they entered.

Thomas' gaze turned to his hand. It was free—the stranger had let it go. But why? Wasn't he afraid Thomas'll run away? He asked the same questions out loud as he fell a few meters behind. He needed his distance, just in case.

The blond shook his head. "No, not really. Look, the thing is, even if you'd do that, I'd find you again all the same. I have an advantage here that you don't: I know this place as well as the back of my hand. You literally cannot hide from me."

Only now did Thomas notice the stranger's distinct British accent and... a limp? Wait. So this guy had found him despite having a limp? Despite Thomas having such a head start? Impressive. In truth, if he hadn't realised all this, he would've made another run for it. Probably. His chest pains were coming back—the adrenaline must've worn off—and it hurt to breathe again. So perhaps it was better for him to go back and lay down.

"So," Thomas said, distracting himself from his thoughts, "I never got your name. It's quite unfair that you know mine, but I don't know yours, don't you think?" Now that the exciting part was over, all the awkwardness threatened to choke him.

The blond turned around, walked backwards. He gave Thomas a thoughtful? look before turning the right way again. "My name's Newt."

Thomas nodded. Newt.

A couple of minutes later, Thomas asked, "Why are these lights everywhere? If everybody's sleeping at night, isn't it just a giant waste?" He was genuinely curious.

"Yeah, but get this: not everybody sleeps at night."

Thomas blinked a few times in surprise. "Well, evidently you're up and about, but I mean the others. Didn't you just say that nobody's allowed to be out at night?"

"No, I didn't."

Thomas' brows drew together. What was this guy playing at? "Yes, you did. I remember clearly how you said—"

"I said that nobody's allowed to be wandering around, not that nobody's allowed to do their jobs."

"...Why should they do that anyways? Can't they work during the daytime?"

Newt's pace quickened as he answered. "It's complicated."

"The hell it is. Why can't you just tell me? It's a simple enough question." Thomas followed Newt's suit and walked a bit faster, if only so he wouldn't get left behind.

"You'll get your answers tomorrow, okay? Just... be patient."

The rest of the way passed in silence.

.oOo.

Thomas woke up to a loud _thump_. By the time the door to his room opened, he had already managed to sit up a little straighter; he ignored the pain growing in his chest as he did so.

In stepped a skinny, yet muscular, boy with dark blond hair and a frown gracing his hard-to-look-at features. He opened his mouth the second he closed the door behind him. "Hello there. Still don't remember your name?"

The guy's voice was rather pleasant to listen to. Although it sounded scratchy, it was firm and to the point. "I... uh..." Thomas searched his brain for anything, but as he had feared already, he came up with nothing. "No."

"Yeah, thought so. Anyways, you better get dressed. We have a lot to do today, and I'd like for us to start as soon as possible."

Thomas nodded. This must've been the thing Newt talked about the day before—the time he got all the answers to his never-ending stream of questions. Though, it seemed like that guy over there wasn't the type to tolerate stupid questions, or pointless talk in general, so he kept his questions and thoughts to himself. For now, at least.

While Thomas cautiously escaped from under the blanket and looked around to find his shoes, the brunet? blond? dark blond? introduced himself. "I'm Galileo, by the way. I'm the one running this whole place."

For a moment, Thomas raised his head to throw a quick glance at the guy just a few meters away from him. "Wait, what? How come? You can't be older than fifteen!"

So much of keeping his mouth shut. Thomas would've loved to hold a staring contest with Galileo, but unfortunately, that was the exact time his left foot found the last shoe from under the bed. And whether he liked it or not, he had to put the damn thing on.

"That's just the way things are. You're gonna understand it better once we're done with the tour."

Thomas stood up from the edge of the bed, both of his shoes right where they belonged. "The tour?"

"Yeah. Unless you'd prefer just sitting on your bed while I'm explaining things?" Galileo asked, hints of amusement and impatience in his voice.

"I'm good."

Without another word, the two walked out of the building. The wind danced around Thomas as it had the previous night, the only difference being the now apparent sunlight illuminating everything in its sight. The buildings seemed even closer to collapsing than they'd done the previous night. The one closest to them had two floors—after a quick look around, it became clear that none of the buildings were higher than that—but the second floor was dangerously tilted towards the front. The other thing was that the windows were at random places, making the overall look of the building even more chaotic.

Thomas turned to Galileo. "Um, could I use the bathroom before we start?"

.oOo.

The tour was long and thorough; it turned out Galileo was an excellent tour guide. He covered all topics Thomas itched to know about: the Box, the Gladers, the giant wall, the rules, the history... everything. But it was still a lot to take in, so by the time they finished, Thomas had forgotten about half of the things he'd learned.

However, the most important things burned themselves into his skull the second he heard them. For example, Thomas' arrival meant the Glade's population had now risen to 42, Galileo and Newt were the ones who'd been there the longest, a whopping two years and three months, and the most surprising one yet, the place functioned because of a Caste system. ("Yeah, there's a Rank System going on here. There're eleven Ranks in total; you're a Nine at the moment. Depending on what job you end up with, you either get a higher or a lower Rank than that." To Thomas' question as to what Rank Galileo himself was, he'd gotten the answer Zero.)

"This is the last night you'll spend here," Galileo said once they'd returned to Thomas' room. "I'm not going to bother you with all the details about what happens tomorrow; I think you've had enough for one day." He sent Thomas a questioning look, as if to ask for confirmation.

"Yeah, I think you're right. My brain would probably explode if I'd learn another thing about this fucked-up place."

"I'll send somebody in a couple of hours to fetch you. Y'know, so you'd find your way to dinner. Don't want you to starve, eh?"

Thomas sent Galileo a weak smile as he lowered himself to the bed—nice and slow. "Thanks, dude."

Galileo nodded.

* * *

A/N. I'm sorry, I know there wasn't much in this chapter, and there are two reasons as to why. The first one is that if I'd made it any longer, I couldn't have uploaded it today, and I have a specific schedule I like to stick to. The other's that the next chapter is going to be an eventful one, and I couldn't split it up. I hope you understand. (:


	4. Chapter 4

Time is odd. Every so often one finds themselves from a situation where seconds seem to tick by at an abnormally slow rate, where the simple act of breathing out lasts for hours. Thomas would know; he'd had the chance to experience that very thing in the short while he'd been able to make actual memories. However, a situation with the exact opposite properties existed as well, and that was precisely what Thomas felt mere minutes after returning from the tour with Galileo.

Thoughts raced around in his head, often conveying the smallest of ideas that had no relevance to the topic at hand whatsoever, barely registering in his mind. The latter ones were the reason what gave the illusion of time passing by at a quicker pace than was the norm; it felt like he thought about far fewer things than he actually did. Well, it was one of the possibilities. The other was that time just enjoyed messing around and never being consistent.

A series of knocks brought Thomas out of his bubble. His gaze hopped from one place to another, lost, as his mind wakened itself from... whatever this had been. The room swam in shadows—was he really out for so long? When he'd returned, the sun had blasted its rays from somewhere the middle of the sky.

"Are you okay?" a familiar voice asked.

Thomas jumped. His gaze focused on Newt who now stood in his room and not behind the door, knocking. When had he come inside? "Yeah, I'm fine. Was just taking a nap," he lied casually. Newt didn't need to know about his weird experiences with time. Besides, it probably had a logical explanation anyway: whose brain wouldn't fuck up after being thrust into a strange environment with no memories of past life?

Newt's eyes narrowed; he didn't believe him. "You sure? It didn't look like it."

"Why would I lie?" Thomas asked in return. He moved his legs off from the bed, careful to hold his upper body still as he did so, and stood up. A bunch of black dots attacked his eyes and brought a sharp pain with them. He nearly fell back onto his bed.

"No offence, but I think your definition of fine doesn't quite match up with the actual definition. Should I go fetch Jeff?" Newt's tone, despite having a hint of humour in it, sounded worried.

Thomas shook his head to clear his vision and reached down to grab his shoes. "No, I really am fine. And who the hell is Jeff?" The fact that his voice came out a bit tense from putting on the shoes didn't really help his cause.

"Jeff's a Med—the Keeper of the Med-jacks. Nice guy."

"I thought Clint was the Keeper?" Galileo had sure told him so...

Newt answered after a second. "You thought wrong."

"Okay, I'm ready. Let's go?"

.oOo.

After walking for two or three minutes in pure silence, the air began to vibrate; it didn't take long to recognise the beat of a drum. Or rather, many drums.

"So, d'you always party in the evenings?" Thomas asked, curious. They passed by the last building in the Middle—that's how the Gladers called, surprise, surprise, the middle of the Glade, also known as the place where most of the buildings were located—and turned to the right. The music grew louder by the second now, and singing could be clearly distinguished from it. "Or is it just a one-time thing?"

Newt didn't turn around to give him an answer. "Guess you could say that. We definitely don't have them all evenings, but it's up to you to figure out the specifics. Because, you know, where would the fun in that be if I'd tell you?"

Thomas kicked a random rock with his foot. "How nice of you to always make sure I'm having the most fun I can."

"No problem, that's why I'm here," Newt said, sarcastic.

When it became clear Newt didn't plan on saying anything else, Thomas took a deep breath in. "Would you mind if I asked you a question?"

"Go for it."

Thomas kicked his rock in an unfortunate angle; it flew all the way to the left. He debated on whether or not he should go and get it, but by the time he decided that yes, yes he should, he'd walked too far away, and it would've been weird for him to run back. A part of him missed the thing after only ten seconds—his legs had gotten so used to chasing it and his eyes following it. He put his hands in his pockets and looked ahead. "How do I look like?"

When he'd been on his own, that question had become the most frequent one to bug him, making an appearance at least once every two minutes. And of course, the room didn't contain any mirrors.

Newt's pace slowed gradually until he stopped completely and turned around. "You want _me_ to tell you how _you_ look like?" he asked, unsure, looking Thomas straight in the eye.

"Well, yeah," he said, his right hand escaping from the pocket and moving higher to scratch the back of his neck. "I sorta discovered I don't have any fucking idea how I look like, and I haven't come across any reflective surfaces, either, so..."

Newt's eyes scanned Thomas' body up and down, and Thomas felt a little uneasy. _Come on, don't be ridiculous. I'm the one who asked him to do that in the first place._

"You've got brown hair, a normal build, and you're quite tall. That good enough for you?"

Thomas lowered his hand. "No, not really. Is my hair light or dark? What do you mean by normal build? How—"

"Bloody hell, shank, aren't you curious?" There was that word again. Shank. _I'm sure Galileo explained what it means, but..._ Newt didn't give Thomas any time to answer. "Your hair's _dark_ brown, your body's _a bit_ muscular, and I'd say you're about—" he took a step closer to him, "—175 centimeters or so tall. Oh, and your eyes are _dark_ brown, in case you were wondering."

For a couple of seconds there, Newt's face was mere centimeters away from his. Thomas wasn't sure what to think about that. But he could swear Newt's eyes looked exactly like tiny black holes; they were impossibly dark with a few specks of blue. They resembled a night's sky with a couple of brighter stars among them.

Had he really just thought that?

Thomas felt a rush of warmth in his neck area that steadily made its way upwards. _God_.

"Uh, thanks," he said as he pushed past Newt, hoping against hope that the other boy hadn't noticed a thing.

Silence fell between them, but Thomas wouldn't have gone as far as to say it was uncomfortable. It just felt like all the words ever invented had ceased to exist.

The road beneath them turned into a one of soil. A few lone trees towered over them a couple of meters away, but besides that, the ground stayed fairly even and tree-less for quite a while, right until the large walls put a stop to it. Some random thought at the back of his mind wondered how it would feel to just lay there, in the middle of the grassland, and stare into the night sky.

There, far off in front of him, were shadows. Dancing shadows, if he interpreted the moves correctly.

"Hey," began Newt, "have you remembered anything yet? Any vague faces, names, symbols? Because if you have..."

Thomas let out a sigh. "I wish. But no, nothing's come back to me yet, not even my fucking name. Why?"

Newt's voice developed a faint undercurrent, one that Thomas couldn't understand. "Oh, no reason. Just wondering."

Thomas nodded, his mind already on something else. The party. The beat of drums made its way under his skin, as if begging him to dance along with its rhythm. He felt like he had time-travelled thousands of years into the past, back into the time where the ancient people danced around the fire, faces hidden behind masks. The music sure sounded like something from that era, and there seemed to be even a fire going.

"So, am I stuck with you for the night, or can I go around and do stuff?" Thomas asked, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

There were a lot of people; he wouldn't have been able to tell the exact amount even if he'd tried. About a third of them danced, and all the others either walked around with cups in their hands or sat on tree trunks. A single maple tree grew about ten or so meters away from the fire, its thick branches forming almost a roof of sorts.

"Eager to get rid of me?" Newt asked, his voice falling flat. "And yeah, you're stuck with me for the night; I'm supposed to keep an eye on you so you wouldn't do anything... stupid."

"Cool," Thomas answered, distracted. He'd just noticed a literal girl walking past him, and he wondered how that could've been the case—Galileo had told him there were no girls in the Glade. Nevertheless, Thomas had seen the person's face clearly, and it'd been definitely feminine. "Dude, was that a girl I saw?" he asked, his voice full of disbelief. "I could swear..."

Newt was quick to answer. "No, that was Fex. You might not want to point it out to him that his appearance isn't the most masculine, though. There's this tiny chance you'd come off as rude, y'know?"

Thomas nodded, thinking he understood.

The two boys walked around aimlessly, Thomas in the front and Newt in the back. Newt reminded Thomas of his shadow: always there but never in the way. Because of that, actually, he forgot the guy's presence entirely.

"Oops, sorry," shouted Thomas after he bumped into a tall, lean boy who seemed to be about fourteen. The music, or rather, the drums, prevented Thomas from speaking in any way that was short from yelling. "Hey, where'd you get your drink?" Thomas had noticed the white cup in the boy's hand and now pointed at that with his two middle fingers. He'd seen majority of the people drink, but he'd failed to figure out where they'd gotten it from. And he quite fancied a drink right now.

The brunet shouted back, "Casso's handing them out near the tree! Don't worry, there's still a lot left!"

"Thanks, man," Thomas said with a smile and turned to the left, his new destination the maple-tree.

He didn't even know if the drink was laced with alcohol or not, but he didn't care. Truth be told, it'd probably be better if it _would_ have alcohol in it—maybe then he'd feel confident enough to join the people dancing around the fire. They looked like they were having the time of their lives, and Thomas wouldn't have minded to feel like that as well. Especially if it got his mind off of things, things like the Death Circle. And the Grievers. God, Galileo's description of them had been so detailed, Thomas could envision them before his eyes as vividly as he could envision Galileo himself.

The crowd gradually thinned out, and Thomas now stood in front of a makeshift counter. A short boy with an unbelievably muscular build sat behind it, his back against the tree. From where he was standing, Thomas couldn't see what the blond guy was sitting on, but he could bet it was another one of those tree trunks.

Thomas opened his mouth to ask if he could get a drink when he felt hands on his shoulders. In an instant, he was pulled back and directed away. "Wh—"

"You're so not going to drink that," came Newt's voice from somewhere behind him. If he wasn't mistaken, the blond was pushing him towards a slightly less crowded place. There were even benches—if one could call them that.

"Why the hell not?" Thomas protested. Newt gave him one last push towards the bench, and Thomas almost lost his balance.

"Because," he said as he took a seat, "you won't like it. Trust me."

Thomas, having caught back his balance, sat down next to him. "You can't know that. All the others seem to like it, so why—"

"Yeah, because they're already used to its god-awful taste and, more importantly, grown immune to its power to make you drunk out of your mind in two nanoseconds."

"You're bluffing." There was no way a drink could've possibly been that strong, not to mention people being able to 'grow immune' to it.

"Am not," Newt answered, his face serious. "I've seen enough shanks drinking it to last a lifetime."

Thomas wasn't sure whether the guy was playing with him or not, so he said nothing. Until a thought hit him. "Why do you care if I get drunk or not?"

"I don't."

Thomas looked him in the eye, the position of his eyebrows demonstrating his skepticism. "Then why am I not allowed to drink?"

"Because," Newt said, his eyes meeting Thomas', "I say so."

Thomas was incapable of accepting that as an answer. "And why, exactly, do you say so?"

A glimmer of something made its way into Newt's eyes, but Thomas couldn't for the life of him figure out what it meant. Was he irritated? Amused?

"Because I can."

Oh, so he's playing that game, Thomas thought. "Is that so? Well, it doesn't mean I have to listen to it."

"Actually, you do," Newt said, nothing in his face or posture giving away any hint as of what he thought of the situation. But really, it was like the boy wanted him to ask questions.

"I do?" Thomas asked, his voice a mix of humour and disbelief.

"Yes, you do," Newt answered, still holding Thomas' gaze.

"And why's that?"

"Because I'm a One and you're a Nine," he said simply.

For a second there, Thomas was entirely convinced the guy was trying to hit on him but had forgotten half his lines. After all, there was a pick-up line that sounded pretty similar. _On a scale from one to ten, you're a nine and I'm the one you need_ , or something like that.

But then he remembered: there was this weird Caste System going on here. Galileo had briefed him in on it before, but he'd managed to forget it almost immediately after hearing it.

Thomas came out of his thoughts to find Newt smirking at him. _Smirking_. His expression told Thomas everything he needed to know: the other boy knew exactly what he'd been just thinking about. Despite his best efforts to not blush, he felt his cheeks warming up. God, twice in one day? That must've been some kind of a record. Or not, he realised. He really didn't know himself well enough to tell if it was a normal occurrence for him or not.

"Don't look at me like that," he finally managed to say. "How was I supposed to know what you... Never mind. Wait, so you're a One? How come? Isn't that, like, a really high Rank to be in?" Although both of them saw through Thomas' rather obvious attempt at changing the topic, neither one commented on it.

"Yeah, it indeed is, like, a really high Rank to be in."

"Don't mock me," Thomas said as he put his hand on his chest dramatically. "I'm just a new bean in this strange place that you call the Shade—wait, no, the Glade."

Newt's lips quirked up in a smile. An actual smile, not that barely-even-there-smirk that he'd been doing. He shook his head, his blond hair flying in all kinds of directions, but before he could say anything...

A loud boom exploded through the air, vaguely reminding of cannons going off, followed by a strange sound that couldn't have been put into words. Thomas jumped up, heart pounding fast. "The fuck was that?"

"Hey, easy there," Newt said in an attempt to calm Thomas down. Everybody else around them continued doing what they were doing, not paying any attention whatsoever to the new and impossibly loud noise that they just had to have heard. "It's just the walls; they're closing. I thought Gally told you about that?"

"He... he did, but I didn't expect it to be so..."

"You'll get used to that after a while." Newt gave Thomas a half-smile, as if saying it's no big deal.

Heart still thumping painfully against his chest, Thomas sat back down and rested his head on his hands. "This is so weird. Giant walls closing around us and trapping us inside is considered normal."

After a brief silence, Newt said, "I wouldn't call it that. I'd say the walls are more like protecting us than anything. Think about what'd happen if the Grievers got inside the Glade... it'd be a real bloodbath, I can tell you that."

As it turned out, the party went on for several hours—until the midnight. In Thomas' opinion, it should've ended much earlier; by the end, nearly everybody was so drunk they could barely walk. _I guess nobody can truly be immune to that weird drink... It just takes more time for its effects to show up._ Thomas himself didn't even get to taste the said thing—mostly because of Newt's warning— but he didn't mind. At least, when he saw the results of it, he didn't.

Shortly after his and Newt's conversation, a dark-skinned boy had come over to summon him for whatever reason, so Thomas was left alone for the rest of the night. In the beginning, he'd been rather lost, not knowing what he should or even could do, but after observing the others for twenty minutes, he decided that no, he wasn't going to sit the party out. He'd stood up and joined the dancing crowd, feeling a bit—okay, very— awkward as he tried to imitate other people's movements. However, he soon realised the boys themselves had no idea what they were doing, and that thought calmed him down enough to let go. To dance around, to sing along to the wordless song that was apparently a thing, to blend in seamlessly.

That was, until Galileo and Newt came back from wherever the fuck they'd been and told everybody to leave, that the party was over. To Thomas' utter surprise, the place cleared up within minutes, despite the fact that some of them had to use all four limbs for moving.

Right now, Thomas was on his way back to his room, his mind buzzing with thoughts. He followed a tiny trail that seemed to go in the general direction of the Middle. The only reason he even had noticed it, though, was that somebody had lit up the lanterns during the party. But who? Who'd prefer to do that instead of, well, partying? Especially if the party itself didn't take place every day? _I have to ask Galileo or Newt about that_.

The party had been amazing. Perhaps not so much towards the end, but... The feeling of letting go, of moving with the rhythm, of moving with the crowd—perfect. Though, he didn't want to do it often; once every few weeks would be more than enough. Because try as he might, he couldn't deny that it had tired him out. His ears buzzed from the music, and his chest hurt more than it should have. A lot more. But it'd been worth it, all of it.

He reached the first building of the Middle, and he was glad; he didn't think his legs could carry him for much longer now. In his quest for his room, he didn't see a single soul wandering the streets, but he heard their voices all the same. It looked like they, or at least some of them, moved towards a certain building somewhere farther off.

He turned a corner... and took a step back. Two boys stood about seven meters away, their bodies just centimeters away from each other. _Are they...?_ No. After taking a closer look, he clearly saw the defensive pose of one boys and the offensive one of the other.

"I already told you; I have no idea what you're talking about! What shuck maze? What gatherings?"

"Don't act all innocent with me; I have irrefutable evidence that you—"

"Are you high? Did you have too much Hys? I haven't—"

The boys stood in a shadow, so Thomas couldn't see them very well, but to him it seemed like the one that was being accused of something couldn't have been older than 13, and the one who accused him was...

"Galileo?" _Shit_. Why the fuck did he have to open his mouth? Why, why, why? "Is that you? What's going—"

"You and I will talk about this the first thing tomorrow, no excuses. Come to the Skizzle, and do not be late." With those words, Galileo pushed the poor boy away from him, and the kid nearly fell face-first to the ground. Then, he ran.

Galileo turned towards Thomas, his whole being showing how upset—well, angry would've been the correct word—he was. "Thomas."

"What did you do to that kid? He was scared to death!"

"What did _I_ do to _him_? The real question is what _he_ did to _me_." He took a long breath to calm himself before he continued. "It's a long story."

Thomas crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. "I have ti—"

"What I meant to say," cut Galileo him off, "was that it's nothing you should worry about. Get to your shuck room, okay? You don't want to be out tonight." With that, he walked away.

* * *

A/N. Do you see now why I couldn't make the previous chapter longer? Well, I could've, but the editing would've taken up too much time, and time's something I don't have. Also, I'm glad to see a few of you are enjoying the story! I gotta admit, I was pretty nervous at first to put my story out there, so I'm really happy I haven't had to regret it.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hey, Thomas, wake up!"

"What—go away!" Thomas mumbled and turned to the other side. "It's too early."

"Listen, I hate this as much as the next guy, but you really have to get up and come with me if you don't wanna get in trouble."

"I'm sleeping; I can't come."

A groan. And then...

"Was this necessary?" Thomas asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

Chuck, who stood a meter away with Thomas' blanket in hand, nodded. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Now hurry up! We have to get moving."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming alright," he muttered, already searching for his shoes in his still half-asleep state. What was the time anyways? It felt like he'd managed to sleep for only ten minutes.

"Thomas...?"

"Mm, what?"

"Get yourself together—you can't just fall asleep like that!"

"Watch me."

His eyelids felt so heavy; if he could close them for just two seconds, it'd surely help...

Thomas' face came in contact with something far more painful than a pillow ever could be.

"Ow!" His eyes flew open as his right hand shot up to touch the now hurting cheek. "You slapped me!"

"Damn right I did. You do know that there'll be consequences to your not going to work today?"

"Oh, that's right," Thomas said and yawned right after the words left his mouth, "the first day of work. I'm supposed to go to the Kitch today, right?" He stretched and continued his quest for shoes.

Chuck nodded. "Yes. But if you're even five minutes late, you're not gonna. You know why?"

Shoes on, Thomas stood up. The two boys walked to the door, Chuck leading the way. The latter looked rather refreshed and happy. _Does this mean he wasn't at the party yesterday? I could swear..._

"No, why?" Thomas asked, not particularly caring. He had trouble with even putting one foot in front of the other, so figuring out answers to things like that were definitely something his tired brain wouldn't even bother to try to figure out.

"Because both Frypan and Galileo are extremely against lazy shanks."

A blanket of clouds covered the sky, the normally bright sun reduced to a mere glowing orb. Birds sang their morning songs, and the wind carried around the sounds of distant talking.

"Wait, this Frypan dude is the Keeper of the Cooks, right? He's not the Boss—why does he have any say in what happens to the people who're late?"

"He doesn't?"

"Didn't you just say..."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "You really aren't a morning person, are you?"

"Only after partying the entire previous night."

"You... you were at the party yesterday?" asked Chuck, his expression turning into one of understanding. "Makes sense, I guess."

Thomas would've liked to ask Chuck to clarify what he meant by that, but he couldn't, as they arrived to their destination: the Kitch. The building consisted of three large rooms that were connected to each other with corridors, forming the general shape of a triangle. Only the room in the front had a door.

"Who was the genius who built this thing, huh?" Thomas asked, unable to contain himself. "Why couldn't it have just three storeys instead of, well, three connected rooms? I don't see the point in that." _But to be fair, I'm not sure these people living here can make three-storey buildings without them collapsing the second they're done..._

It soon became clear Chuck wasn't planning on giving him an answer.

The door flew open with a bang, and there stood a dark-skinned boy, who looked about seventeen, in a brown apron. "I've been waiting for you for decades!" he exclaimed, practically running towards Thomas and Chuck. "We have so much work to do, come on!"

He reached Thomas and grabbed him by the hand, pulling him along. Thomas, surprised by the whole thing, just waved Chuck goodbye and followed the guy—Frypan?—inside, nearly tripping over his feet. He yanked his hand free the moment they stepped inside. "Did you _have_ to do that?" The room was rather huge, nearly the size of a small flat. Different counters, stoves, and refrigerators stood before the walls, a few counters in the middle.

Frypan gave him an irritated smile. "Absolutely. Kitch's rule number one: when you're late, the Kitch's staff is given the privilege of using whatever force needed to get that said late person into the kitchen as fast as possible. Didn't you know that?"

"You made that just up," Thomas accused. He walked around the place, peeking into pots and pans.

"Not really. We even have that written down somewhere, although I must admit, the wording is— _hey_! Don't open that!"

But it was too late; Thomas had already pulled the cabinet door open. Flour poured out of it as if it were water, and Thomas took a step back, his eyes glued to the mess he'd just made. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—"

"Ah, it's fine, don't worry about it," Frypan said as he came closer, having taken a brush and a bowl with him. "It happens." He held the two things in front of him, clearly implying Thomas should be the one who clears everything up.

 _Which's fair, I suppose_ , he thought as he took them. "You always keep flour in your cabinets like that?" he asked, crouching down. _Because it's awful unsanitary if you do._ He did his best to ignore the growing pain in his chest.

"No." Frypan laughed. "I swear to God, I have no idea who keeps doing that, but every couple of days somebody... well, plays a prank on me, I guess, regarding flour. It was funny at first, but after a year..." He shook his head and went behind a counter right in the middle of the room. He had a few tomatoes, cucumbers, and apples on it, a few of them already cubed and put into different bowls.

Thomas' hands stopped moving. "Wait, a year? You've been here for a year?"

Frypan didn't even glance up from whatever he was doing as he answered. "Basically, yeah. Give or take a month."

"Wow," was all that Thomas was capable of saying. Sure, Galileo had told him there were people who'd been there for years—he himself had been there for whopping two years—but it didn't make it any easier for him to wrap his head around. He focused his attention back on cleaning the floor. _I can't imagine what it's like to live in the Glade for so long with no way out._

"Has it ever made you feel, you know, hopeless?"

"Has what made?"

"This place. I mean, there's nowhere to go and giant walls surround everything; doesn't it ever make you feel hopeless?"

Frypan sighed. "It did, at first. But the more time you spend here— _live_ here—the more you realise that feeling sorry for yourself isn't gonna get you anywhere. So you shuck grow up, accept your fate, and move on. There are more horrible things out there, in the real world, than living in the Glade."

Thomas nodded; he understood that. Some people lived in extreme poverty, sometimes going for days without eating. Some people had awful illnesses, abusive families, and so much more. So yes, from that point of view, it would've been unfair to complain about living in the Glade. Thomas' bowl got full, and he exchanged it for an empty one. Minutes passed in silence before Frypan opened his mouth. "Y'know, I'm surprised you haven't asked the one question all Greenies have asked from me."

Thomas' eyebrows rose. "That so?"

"Indeed is." Frypan nodded as he walked around the kitchen, searching for something from the drawers. "Wanna guess what it is?"

"Not really." The monotone job he was doing had brought back his sleepy state; his eyelids felt heavy, and he would've very much preferred to be back in his own bed.

"Well, prepare yourself for one of the best questions ever asked around here." He made a small pause before continuing. "Why do you think this place has electricity, whereas no other place, except for the bathrooms, hasn't?" Frypan found whatever he had been looking for, and closed a drawer with a _thump_ before walking back to his counter.

Thomas blinked a few times. "I guess I just didn't realise that."

"Evidently so. Still, though, what are your thoughts on this?"

"Uhm... I don't think I'm the right person to ask this from. I've been here for three days, out of which the first one I can't even remember, so do you really think I've managed to make up theories yet?"

"Oh, come on, I just want to know what you think. There are no wrong answers."

After taking the third bowl to put the damn flour into, he said, "So, no other place in the Glade has electricity? Okay. I think it means that whoever put us here wants us to work in order to survive but not too much, you know?" His foggy brain showed the first signs of waking up. "Like, it'd be quite difficult to feed, what, forty people? every day without it. As for the bathrooms, I don't exactly think the Creators wanted us to go around and cover the ground with our feces..." Yeah, that even made sense, in a way.

Frypan's chopping stopped. "That's... we've been thinking the same thing. I'm surprised you came up with that theory so fast."

Thomas shrugged. "Logic, I guess."

He stood up, eyeing the now clean floor. Trying to balance three full bowls in his hands without them falling down—there was no way he'd make two trips—he began his way towards the Keeper...

A loud knock echoed through the room; it almost made Thomas lose his grip on the bowls. His gaze followed Frypan as the latter made his way to the door, a somewhat surprised look on his face.

"Minho," he greeted, although Thomas couldn't see whom from where he was standing. "You're late. I thought you weren't coming today; did something happen?"

"No... Well, yes, actually," the other boy said, then lowered his voice considerably. "Remember the baby Griever we—"

 _A baby Griever? What? How? When? Where?_

Frypan shushed him. "Later." He stepped out of the way, revealing an Asian boy with dark hair standing on the other side. Thomas barely heard the last word, as the sound of the walls opening boomed through the Glade.

Minho's eyes widened, and he sent a look at Frypan before turning to Thomas. "So, you're the Greenie then, yeah?" he asked. "Chuck's gonna be real happy to get rid of the Greenie status," he said to nobody in particular. Then, as if coming out of his thoughts, he looked around. "The food?"

"Here." Frypan opened a nearby drawer, took out a large bag of... something, and handed it over to Minho. "It's bread with cheese and tomatoes," said Frypan, his back turned to Minho as he walked back to the counter he'd been working at so far.

"Good enough for me," muttered the Asian as he turned around. "Catch you later!"

"Yeah, yeah, get moving already!"

The door closed with a soft _bang_. Thomas turned his curious gaze to Frypan. "What was this all about?"

"What was what all about?" asked Frypan in return, staring at him with an innocent look.

"This guy— _Minho?_ —why did he come here? Is that a thing? Like, does he come by every morning? If so, why?"

"I might consider answering you if you do your job at the same time, alright?" Thomas, having completely forgotten he still held three bowls of flour in his hands, blinked in surprise. He nodded, continuing his way towards the counter near Frypan's.

"Minho's the Keeper of the Runners. And yes, he does come here every morning. Wanna guess why?"

Thomas put the things on the counter with a _clink_. "...to get food?"

"Exactly."

 _He probably takes the food to the other Runners_ , he thought. _And then they pack it up and eat during the day_. That sounded about right. "But what did he mean by baby Gr—"

"Listen, as much as I'd like to answer your thousand and one questions, we have work to do. We've already fallen behind."

.oOo.

Thomas spent the rest of the day in the Kitch, as was expected, only leaving when in need of a bathroom break. In the afternoon, Frypan introduced him to the other Cooks—Tolen, Case, Don, and a few others—who apparently worked in the building's other rooms. ("The Keeper of the Cooks must always have a room for himself, so he could come up with great recipes without any disturbances." When Thomas asked when had been the last time he had thought of any new recipes, Frypan told him that it was enough questions for one day and _go back to work, you nosy shank_.)

Thomas found himself enjoying cooking. On a scale of one to ten, he rated it a solid seven, despite that Frypan kept pointing out his mistakes every now and then. ("They're called _cubes_ , not _rectangles_!" and "Thomas, you can't peel _half a potato_ off! Even a two-year-old can do a better job than that" being the more frequent ones.)

He was let go at about six o'clock, an hour before supper, whereas the other cooks stayed behind to give the food some finishing touches. _Overachievers_ , he thought, walking aimlessly around the Glade. He had just now remembered that he wasn't supposed to spend another night in the room he'd grown rather fond of, and since he had no idea where he was supposed to live from then on out, he made it his goal to find somebody who knew. Though, he didn't fancy the idea of asking for help from random Gladers, which meant he had a very small chance of actually succeeding in his task, as he only knew six, maybe seven Gladers by their faces, out of which more than a half were back at the Kitch. _Fantastic_.

After about ten minutes, he seriously thought about approaching a stranger. _What's the worst they can do to me? Kill me for asking help? Not likely._ Then, he saw a familiar round-ish figure walk by. "Chuck! Hey, Chuck, wait up!"

Chuck turned around, his mouth quirking up in a smile when he noticed Thomas. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to find somebody harmless enough to ask a question from," joked Thomas. "Then I found you and thought, _bingo_!"

Chuck forced his face serious. "Harmless? _Me_? I could beat you in a fight with both my hands tied."

"Is that so? Well, I'm sure it can be arranged..."

The younger one gave Thomas a friendly shove before continuing his walk. "What was the question, anyways?"

"Uh, do you know where I'm supposed to sleep today? I was told I can't use my previous room anymore, so..."

"Oh, that. I'm sure somebody comes looking for you when the night-time comes."

Thomas gave Chuck a look of disbelief. "You're kidding. Why can't you just tell me?"

"Reasons," said Chuck, his tone full of amusement. "You'll find out soon enough."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Great. Can't wait."

.oOo.

The evening rolled around, and Thomas and Chuck ate dinner together in a place very appropriately called the Eating Place. There were only three tables, which meant the pair of them had to sit on the hard ground in order to eat their food, and of course, Thomas found it unfair. "How come they," he began, pointing towards the people sitting at the tables, "get a table and we don't? Is it that difficult to build more tables, or do they just want us to suffer?"

Chuck shook his head. "Neither. It's because they need to remind us every chance they get how they're better than us, those arrogant shanks." His voice turned a couple degrees colder towards the end of the sentence, and Thomas wondered in what other ways the Highs— _that's how the people in higher Ranks were called_ —shoved their superiority under the Gladers' noses.

"But why? Aren't we all in this together? Why are some of us better than the others?"

Chuck took his time chewing food. "You might not want to ask those kinds of questions out loud—you won't believe how easy it is to get in trouble around here."

"But—"

"Hey there. Mind if I join you?"

The voice sounded familiar. When Thomas turned his head in an angle that allowed him to see the newcomer, he understood why. Clint, the first person he'd seen after waking up, lowered himself to the ground, his tray firm in his hands.

"Thomas," he greeted. "Or have you remembered your name?"

Thomas gave the slightest of head-shakes but didn't answer out loud; his attention was on something much more intriguing: the bruises on Clint's face, arms, and legs. The poor chap looked like he'd just lost a fight. His expression conveyed in addition to anger and frustration also a hint of sadness and shame.

"I can't believe they actually went through with that!" exclaimed Chuck, his tone a mix of anger and compassion.

"Yeah, well, they did," said Clint. "Guess I deserved it, too, you know?"

Chuck's eyes went wide. "What do you mean you _deserved_ it? You didn't even do anyth—"

"Yes, I did," interrupted Clint, his tone sharp. "I knew the rules, but I still—"

"Do you regret doing it, then? Because if so..."

"No, of course not, but I could've achieved the same result with other methods—"

"You don't know that."

Thomas, who'd been listening to the boys' conversation in silence until then, decided to speak up. "What the fuck are you even talking about?" Both boys turned to look at him but neither said anything. "Well?" urged Thomas them on. "Or is it some secret?"

Chuck turned to give Clint a look, his eyebrows high, to which Clint answered with a blink. Chuck's brows furrowed together, and Clint bent his head a little to the left. The pair of them exchanged a few more expressions before Chuck spoke up. "In short, he was punished for saving your life."

Thomas wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this wasn't it. "Why would you be punished because of that?" _Sounds fucking ridiculous._

"Because," began Clint, his eyes on his tray, "it's against the rules to hurt another Glader, no matter the occasion, and I hurt you pretty bad while trying to get you breathing again."

Thomas couldn't believe his ears. "Who the fuck came up with such a stupid rule? A twelve-year-old?"

"No, actually. Galileo did. He's the only reason this rule is so important—he despises everybody who dares to step over it."

 _Galileo_? The same guy who'd been his tour guide the day before? The guy who'd seemed rather likable and whom Thomas considered a friend of sorts? "No way."

Chuck's eyes narrowed. "Yes way."

"No, for real, this can't be. I met the guy yesterday; he didn't seem like he'd be... that sort of a person, I guess."

"Well, you better believe it, sister. Galileo's awful good in making first impressions," Clint said, playing around with his food.

"True," confirmed Chuck.

A bit of a silence fell between the three boys, all of them lost in their own thoughts, every once in a while eating a spoonful.

"But your... punishment... was getting beaten up? Isn't that the violation of that rule?"

Clint didn't even bother to look up. "As I said, Galileo hates shanks who think they're above the rules—so much so that he's willing to disregard the said rules if he needs to teach someone a lesson."

"Who made him the king anyway? Can't you just, you know, overthrow him? Start a revolution? Change things?"

Both boys shook their heads, no. Though, it was Chuck who opened his mouth next. "Too many shanks like the life as it is; we're in minority here. If we show any signs of rebellion, we're sent to the Death Circle without the medicine that'd prevent us from dying."

"They're gonna... kill... you?"

"Basically, yeah."

"Does this mean there's literally nobody here that rebels against this weird way of things?"

Clint and Chuck exchanged glances before the former said in a low tone, "No. There's this group named Rebellion who every now and then—"

"Shh! You're not supposed to talk about that!"

Clint shut up.

Thomas needed a minute to process all this. Out of nowhere, a picture of the small boy who'd been arguing with Galileo the previous night appeared before his eyes.

 _"I already told you; I have no idea what you're talking about!"_

 _"Don't act all innocent with me; I have irrefutable evidence that you..."_

 _"Too many shanks like the life as it is; we're in minority here."_

Then it clicked. The boy he'd seen must've been a part of the Rebellion, and Galileo had somehow found out about it.

.oOo.

Thomas was perplexed by the fact he couldn't seem to find a single soul in the entire Glade. Where'd they all gone? Was there a meeting he didn't know about? With his hands in his pockets, he'd done a full circle around the place and even peeked into a few streets, but he'd been greeted with silence, silence, and more silence. Even the birds had stopped chirping, although that was probably because of the nightfall, not because they had decided to jump on the wagon of hiding from Thomas.  
Exactly that, _hiding_. There couldn't have been another explanation for it; forty people didn't just disappear into the thin air without leaving a trace behind. Normal people didn't, at any rate, and from what he'd seen, he'd say they all were the most mediocre lads to ever walk this Earth.

One by one, the crickets sprang to life, shared their beautiful melodies with everybody willing to listen. That sound calmed Thomas down, if just a little, and he decided to take a break from his fruitless efforts at finding the other Gladers. _Maybe I would've had more luck_ , he thought as he neared the closest house—because that's what it was; he was fairly sure at least a few boys used the place for sleeping— _if I'd just barge into those buildings instead of just knocking on their doors_. But no, it felt wrong. He knew he wouldn't have liked it if somebody came into his house without his permission, and he didn't want to do that to others. But still, he needed to find somebody to explain him what was going on.

He stood before the small house, mentally making a list of pros and cons of him entering it. _Pros: somebody might be in there, and he could give me the answers I need. Cons: somebody might be in there, sleeping, and get really angry at me for waking him up._ Both of those were solid reasons, but Thomas figured the answers outweighed the consequences, so he opened the door. More specifically, he would have opened the door if the said door hadn't been locked. _Talk about unforeseen factors..._

He gave the door a kick with his foot, expressing his frustration. Unbelievable. It was his third day there, and he'd already managed to lose the entire Glade's population. Saying a few curses under his breath, he slid down the wooden wall into a sitting position, his legs bent at the knees. He closed his eyes and reached his arms around his legs, pulling them closer, wondering how he ended up in a situation like this.

After the supper, Thomas had had to use the bathroom, so he'd excused himself from the group and went on a search for one. (Which wasn't that difficult, as he'd been smart enough to ask directions from Chuck.) On his way there, he'd passed by quite a few Gladers who couldn't seem to keep their eyes off of him. They hadn't thought they'd been obvious about it, but Thomas noticed those kinds of things. He'd figured they stared at him because he was new, but now that he thought about it, nobody had given him such attention earlier that day. And it could've meant only one thing: the lot of them had planned all this.

Thomas wasn't surprised by that conclusion—after all, he'd presumed it to be true anyway—but there was an odd satisfaction in confirming his doubts, no matter how obvious the said doubts had been. Though, two questions remained: where were they hiding and why. It was the latter of the pair that made him the most curious, as he couldn't fathom why they'd do such a thing. Out of boredom? To have fun? Sure, they were reasons, but they weren't good ones. They wouldn't have gone out of their way to achieve all this just because of that. It would have been pointless. But then again, Thomas hadn't been there long enough to fully understand what the boys found worth doing and what not.

 _Maybe they stayed on the other side of the walls tonight... It was possible if they weren't dumb enough to go near the Death Circle—no. There are the Grievers_ , Thomas remembered. _Those beasts would kill them the second they'd see them, so there goes that theory._

Minutes passed and Thomas showed the first signs of sleepiness: his eyelids felt heavier than usual, and his energy levels had decreased considerably comparing to what they'd been mere hours ago. But he wouldn't let himself fall asleep, he couldn't; he had to find the other boys. Besides, he'd just gotten an idea: this door may have been locked, but that didn't mean the doors of other buildings were locked, not necessarily. Yes, there was a chance that since the guys had known about the Great Hiding—that's how Thomas referred to the situation in his head—they'd had plenty of time to prepare by closing their doors firmly shut. And it was logical, too, but Thomas refused believe it until he'd gotten proof.

So up he stood, a clear idea of what to do next before his eyes, and ran.

Ten minutes later it became clear his suspicions had been, once again, correct. He'd tried to open dozens of different doors with no avail, and although he'd predicted that'd happen, he still felt disappointment fly through his body with every closed door he faced. On the bright side, however, he now knew all the nooks and crooks of the Middle, and a lot about the areas farther away. _Maybe that is the whole point of it_ , Thomas thought grimly as he moved towards yet another house that was probably locked. _They just want me to get to know the Glade's layout better._

To his immense surprise, the door opened under his gentle push, revealing a dark room. The closest lantern was quite far away, as the road itself was fairly far away, and thus the room was poorly lit, to say the least. However, it was enough for Thomas to distinguish different pieces of furniture. On the right side of the room stood a bed, fully made. It was larger than normal, fitting about one and a half people. Comfy. Next to the bed, four meters before Thomas, lay a tiny table that had a... lantern? on top of it. Thomas didn't understand what was on the left side of the room, though. Shadows covered the whole wall, and he could only make out the outlines of a few sticks that had something attached to them.

Without thinking about what he was doing, he stepped into the room, heading towards the lantern. The matches sat rather conveniently next to it, and Thomas had no trouble with lighting up the candle inside. The room filled with light, made everything look even cozier. Especially the bed. Thomas would've loved to just lay down and— _no. I can't sleep in other people's houses! Can't believe I was actually considering that._ Eyebrows furrowed together, he turned to face the other side... and his eyes widened in amazement.

Paintings and drawings covered the entire wall, leaving no space free, and the vague stick-like figures he's seen before turned out to be easels. Three of them, to be exact, all of them carrying pictures in different stages of being finished. What intrigued Thomas the most was how the artworks were situated on the wall. The left side held colourful pictures, but the more they went on to the right side, the less colours were used, making the centre of the wall a mix of black and white with an occasional burst of colour, most times red or yellow, and the right side was absolutely void of even those. Which, of course, didn't make the pictures any less interesting.

The paintings on the left often depicted flowers, birds, animals. Butterflies, landscapes, trees were more the theme of the middle ones, and the paintings on the right showed nothing in particular; they were a combination of abstract art with a few recognisable figures thrown in, such as raindrops, stars, candles. _Oh, there's more_ , discovered Thomas as his gaze moved on to the next wall, the one against which the small table stood. The art on there was completely different from what it'd been before; the paintings depicted actual things, or in some cases, people, that were detailed out to the maximum and looked as if they were real, just black and white. As Thomas examined it more closely, he realised he'd been wrong. There were colours used, but they were so dark it was difficult to differentiate them from black. But yes, there were definitely blues, reds, and greens used.

Until they weren't. And that's where the pictures stopped.

For some reason, Thomas felt like he'd been through an emotional roller-coaster, like he'd seen somebody else's life stretched out before him. _God, I must really be tired_ , he thought, stifling a yawn. _It's not like me to read that deep into things; at least I think so._

Shaking his head, Thomas gave the room one last glance around... and he noticed a wardrobe. It stood right next to the door, so that was likely the reason he hadn't noticed it until then. _No, I can't peek inside it_ , he told himself as he inched closer to the piece of furniture. _By doing so, I'd be putting my nose into things I have no business in having my nose in. And it's immoral. And inconsiderate. And..._

His hand reached out, opening the door. Clothes hung down from the top, formed a thick curtain. They were nothing special; just the clothes all Gladers seemed to wear. On the ground stood a couple of pairs of shoes, neatly placed next to each other. _What did you expect, anyway? A boy hiding from you? A secret mystical box that'd have all the answers_? With a sigh, Thomas pushed the door shut.

About half an hour later, he fell asleep outside the very house, too tired to find someplace better.

* * *

A/N. Ooh, things are getting interesting! Whose house do you think it is? Why did all the other Gladers hide from Thomas? Where did they go? I'd love to hear you guys' thoughts on this. (:


	6. Chapter 6

A freezing cold liquid hit Thomas in the face, waked him from his peaceful slumber. His eyes flew open and his gaze moved feverishly from one place to another, trying to make sense of what was happening. The first thought he had was, _am I ever going to be able to wake up by myself? Do I always have to be woken up by other people? Because I'm not sure I'm okay with that._

Thomas brought his hands up to get rid of the excessive water—he was sure it was just that, water—from his face.

"Thomaaas!" yelled out a voice, to which several others cheered. Thomas couldn't see who was talking, as the bright lanterns all around him blinded him quite a bit. "Wake up, you lazy shank!"

"Wh—what's going on? Why—"

"You've survived the Night of the Greenies—and with flying colours!"

The figures cleared up, and Thomas now saw dozens of faces looking down at him, nearly all of them smiling, some from being genuinely happy, others laughing at his reaction. "The night of what?"

"Night of the Greenies. Come on now, it's not over yet!"

He'd never seen the boy talking to him before, and it disturbed him that a total stranger knew his name, but he did suppose he was something akin to a celebrity at the moment. The dark-haired boy stepped forward and grabbed Thomas by his arm. "You ready?" he asked, his tone full of amusement and something that vaguely resembled excitement.

"Ready for wh—" Thomas was cut off by a sudden yank which forced him into a standing position. "What are you—" He didn't finish his sentence, as the other boy pulled him along once again, this time into a run. _Okay then, fine, show me the way._

They ran. Thomas and the other boy were at the front of the mass of people, everybody else following close behind. Some of them ran next to them, the ones who were faster, apparently.

At least fifteen minutes went by before they arrived their destination: the East Wall. _Do they want to wait here until the gates open? So I'd see how it works?_ he thought with growing disappointment.

Then, he saw it. Lots and lots of words, no, names, carved into the wall, a few branded with a prominent line going through them. It didn't take Thomas long to understand what was in front of him.

"What you can see here are..."

"...the names of all the Gladers ever been," finished Thomas the sentence, nodding along. "I'm gonna get to put my name on here, too?"

Although the other boy seemed surprised by the interruption, he quickly pulled himself together. "Yes, you are. Here," he said, offering Thomas a carving chisel. "If you want to, you can ask somebody else to write your name for you."

"Thanks," said Thomas in return, taking the chisel, "but I don't think that'll be necessary."

Cheers erupted from the crowd once again, and Thomas stepped closer to the wall, a smile making its way onto his lips.

It became clear quite quickly that stone-carving was a lot easier said than done. He had to use a lot of force to scratch the six letters into the hard material, but it was okay; his enthusiasm kept him energised. _What if I remember my name tomorrow?_ came a highly unwanted thought. Another thought reassured him. _Even if that happens, the lot would probably still call me Thomas anyway._

A considerable amount of time later, he was done. The first hints of the sun rising appeared to the sky, colouring everything a nice shade of red.  
"Congrats, Thomas-boy. You did it! You're one of us now."

The crowd went wild and chanted, "One of us! One of us!" over and over again. In any other occasion, Thomas would've probably found it incredibly disturbing, but right now, he just went with it. He let out a sincere laugh and shook hands with at least ten people, hugging thirteen. It was great to feel accepted.

.oOo.

After a morning like that, it seemed like almost a crime to return to normal day-to-day activities, but that was exactly what needed to be done. For Thomas, it meant he had to team up with a guy named Zart and head to the Gardens. It wouldn't have sounded half as bad if the said guy hadn't looked like he was about to fall over from boredom.

As Thomas walked beside Zart, he couldn't help but notice the other boy's height; he must've been, what, two meters tall? He had black, messy hair and a strong build. Thomas didn't know what to think of him.

"What we're gonna do today," began Mr. Tall, "is get rid of the weeds. It's a simple enough job, and you should be able to do it."

 _Likely so, yes_ , he thought, but instead of saying it out loud, he nodded.

"Great. D'you think you need gloves, or you'll do fine without them?"

"I think I'm good, thanks."

Zart raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. They stopped in front of a row of bushes which carried black berries. Blackcurrants? Sure resembled those.

"Your things are there," said Zart, motioning towards the closest bush. "If you need anything, I'll be that way." He pointed to the left. "Any questions?"

"Yeah, actually. How long do I have to do this? The whole day? Or can I do something else later?"

"It depends on how good and how fast you do your job. I mean, if you're a total fail in doing the simpler tasks—like this one—then I guess you understand that I can't let you near more valuable plants."

"Sounds logical, yeah."

Zart walked off without another word, leaving Thomas alone with his thoughts—and, apparently, a bucket. Because that's what the big, grey thing beside the bush must've been.

He grabbed the bucket, brought it with him to the bush, sat down, and placed it next to him. But before he could even reach his hand out to start with the weeding, he noticed something that didn't quite fit. A figure, a... toy? He closed his fingers around the tiny thing, carefully shaking it free from between the branches.

Thomas examined it more closely. Despite its shape being rough, it was meant to be a figure of a human, a man, to be more specific. Its arms and legs were directly connected to the body, leaving no space between, and a short, stick-like thing grew out of the man's back. It took him a while to understand what it was: a gun. The whole thing was meant to be a toy soldier; he got that now. The lines on his upper body and legs weren't as random as he'd previously thought; they were supposed to mark the lines of the man's uniform. Its face consisted of two holes as eyes and a straight line as mouth.

Why was it there? Whose was it? Thomas had no idea. _Perhaps Zart would know, though? He's been here longer than I, so..._ but no. Why'd he know the story behind some random wooden toy?

With a shrug, Thomas put it into the pockets of his trousers. He'd figure it out later.

.oOo.

"What did you think of gardening, though? Think it's something you'd want to do?" asked Chuck, his mouth half-full. The two of them were sitting on the same spot as the day before, enjoying the spaghetti.

"Not really, no," said Thomas. "I don't... Gardening's not my thing. On a scale from one to ten, I'd say it's a two."

Chuck's lips quirked upwards. "And what would cooking be? Wait, no, let me guess. A three? Four?"

Thomas smiled in return, shaking his head. "Nope, not even close. It'd be a solid seven, I think."

The younger boy raised his eyebrows. "You're into cooking? Honestly? You look like the last person to find cooking, of all things, enjoyable."

"Well, one thing's finding something enjoyable and the other is actually being good at it. Frypan didn't seem too impressed with my cooking skills."

"That's because he himself is awful good in it; he tends to forget not everybody's a born cook. And I'd not worry about that, if I were you. Shanks who are total klunk at cooking have become Cooks, so..."

Thomas widened his eyes, amused. "No way. Why'd Frypan let anybody like that into the Kitch? Makes no sense."

"Because their enthusiasm makes up for the lack of actual skills. His words, not mine, by the way."

Thomas gave a short laugh, not sure how to answer to that. He took another mouthful to have an excuse for not saying anything. "Wait," began Thomas moments later, "what do you do around here? I can't believe I still don't know that."

Chuck's face fell, almost unnoticeably. "I'm a Slopper. You know, the one who does stuff nobody else wants to do?"

To say Thomas was surprised would be an understatement. "No kidding? And here I was, thinking you were a Builder or something."

"I wish."

The next minutes passed in silence, if one didn't consider the loud chatter all around them. Thomas' eyes kept drifting to the tables. He had still trouble understanding why there even was this pathetic excuse of a caste system going on. From what he'd seen so far, there was little to no difference between the castes, so why bother keeping it up?

"What am I gonna do tomorrow?" asked Thomas, genuinely curious. "Please say it's Running."

He'd put a lot of thought into this in the past day. There were a couple other ways to rise to a caste high enough to be permitted the access to all the secret information, but they all required his being there for a few years the least; becoming a Keeper didn't happen overnight. However, by becoming a mere Runner, not even the Keeper of the Runners, he'd be granted access. _Plus, I might go crazy between all these walls if I can't leave to see what's on the other side._

When he'd first heard it from Galileo, he'd been confused as to why it was that way. Why did all Runners, without exceptions, be promoted to Rank 3, the lowest Rank that knew everything? It had taken some time, but he'd figured it out.

The thing was, not only they knew exactly what was waiting for them on the other side of the walls, but they were also trained to fight. Yes, fight, because although it was rare, the Grievers—giant monsters who vaguely resembled mechanical spiders—occasionally came out during the day, too, which meant the Runners had a higher chance of surviving if they knew how to fight. That very fact made them invaluable to the Gladers; should anything happen, they could protect them. The Runners had like three tasks at once: making sure nothing changed near the Death Circle, helping to keep order in the Glade, and in case it should be needed, protect the rest.  
It raised the question why wasn't everybody in the Glade trained in fighting. They could defend themselves instead of relying on others for that. So far, the only thing Thomas had come up with was that perhaps the Highs feared the Gladers would decide to solve more conflicts with fists rather than words, but that made little sense. Presuming all the boys had functional brains and they weren't suicidal, why would they go against the Rule Number One anyway? They would just get themselves banished.

Anyways, coming back to the previous thought, because the Runners had so many responsibilities, it would have almost been a crime to not fill them in on the details. So yes, becoming a Runner was the best—but definitely not the safest—way of getting into the Elite.

"Hello? Earth to Thomas! You still with me?" came a voice from someplace far away.

Thomas blinked rapidly, seeing a waving had in front of his face. "What?"

Chuck smirked. "You like him?"

"Who?" asked Thomas, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion as his gaze moved to Chuck. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Him. Newt. You've been staring at him for like two minutes now."

"I—what? Have not."

"Have too," said Chuck, nodding.

Thomas settled for a shrug. "I was lost in thought, I guess, nothing else."

Chuck didn't seem to believe him. "Whatever you say. But just so you'd know, it's not a good idea to even try to get close to him."

"Why not?"

"Just isn't. Mainly because he refuses to become friends with almost anyone. Plus," he said, drastically lowering his voice as if about to tell something of the utmost importance, "personally I think he has a thing with Galileo."

Thomas' eyebrows rose, and he tried hard to keep a straight face. "And why, exactly, do you think that? You've seen them snogging somewhere?" The mental image of those two passionately kissing under a tree made it even more difficult for Thomas to appear nonchalant, but he managed. Chuck seemed serious about it.

"You haven't probably been here long enough to notice," began Chuck, his voice staying low, "but those two are nearly always together. They constantly give each other these... looks... as if communicating without words. It's weird."

"Yeah but have you considered this: maybe they're just really good friends."

Chuck's eyes narrowed. "Maybe."

Not too much later, the boys finished with their supper. As they carried their now empty plates to the Kitch—one of the three rooms existed solely for this purpose—a thought hit Thomas. "Hey, where am I sleeping tonight? Are you gonna do that disappearing trick again? Because if so, I swear to—"

Chuck gave a slight head-shake. "Nope, nothing like that. Well, you remember the place you fell asleep yesterday, don't you?"

"Yeah, but what's that got to do with anything?"

"That has everything got to do with it, considering that's your new home 'til the end of time. Or, until you become Rank Three or higher; whichever comes first."

Thomas almost stumbled over his own two feet. "Really?"

"All true," answered Chuck. "Although this time around, you don't need to sleep on the bare ground. Unless you want to, that is. You can get a sleeping bag."

 _Okay, I can work with that_. "How can I get it? And when?"

"Whenever you want. You just have to go by the Sleephouse; your stuff should be right next to the door."

Thomas fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Sleephouse? Everything's got a name like that here?"

Chuck opened the Kitch's door, walking right in without waiting for Thomas. "You're still aware the whole place is called the Glade, right? What else did you expect?"

The kid had a fair point, but that didn't mean Thomas would've admitted that. In the room, three boys stood before the sinks and... cleaned the dishes? But why? Wasn't everybody's workday over?

"Are you... working?" asked Thomas, adding his plate to an already high pile of dishes. Realising he probably didn't seem like the most intelligent person in the world by asking the question, he rushed to fix it. "I mean, isn't the workday over?"

Two of the three didn't even bother to look up, and even the third one did so with obvious reluctance. "You're new here, aren't you?" he asked, his tone anything but friendly.

"Yeah, he is. Sorry," said Chuck quickly, pushing Thomas out of the door.

"What was that all about?" Thomas asked once outside. "What has my being new got to do with anything?"

"Because," Chuck said, his pace fast, "only Greenies ask such dumb questions."

"How were my questions dumb? It's not my fault I don't know how everything works yet."

Chuck didn't answer. Instead, he took a left turn, disappearing from Thomas' view for two seconds. If he hadn't known better, he'd thought the other boy tried to avoid answering his question. But why would he?

"I'm still waiting for my answer," he reminded after catching up with him.

"I don't think I'm the best person to explain all that..."

"If you know what's going on, then you're the best person to explain it to me. Who cares if it's you or Galileo saying the actual words?"

The boys took a right turn. "It's—ah—complicated. But you're right, I guess... Well, the thing is, certain Ranks have night shifts. They work during the night, not the day."

"Yeah, yeah, I know what a night shift means. But why's that? Why can't they work during daytime?"

"There's just too much work to do, you know? Can't do everything in twelve hours."

T _hat's why there are lanterns on at night; some people are still up and running._ "So, those we saw were Sloppers, right? Are there any other jobs that have to do that?"

"Just two: the Cooks and Newt."

"Newt has his own Rank?" asked Thomas, bewildered. "How can I become a Newt?"

"No, it's not like that. Technically, Newt's job's name is Second-In-Command, but since he's the only one doing that..."

"He's Rank One, right?" he asked, recalling the chat they had at the party.

"Yep. See? You're already getting the hang of the system."

"I guess."

Their conversation was cut short when they turned another corner and found themselves from the front of a large building. It had two storeys and four windows, making for an interesting sight. Bright, yellow letters on top of the door announced the boys had found their way to the Sleephouse.

This time, Chuck decided to let Thomas go in first, and upon entering, Thomas understood why. Cold liquid fell from heavenwards when he opened the door, drenching him completely in just a matter of seconds.

The few boys who'd been in the room sent a mocking smirk Thomas' way, one or two laughed out loud. Chuck joined the latter ones.

"Man, I forgot I put that up. Sorry! I would've warned you, but..." a blond boy said, the end of his sentence disappearing into giggles.

"Real funny," Thomas said, not impressed. For the second time in the span of a day, he brought his hands up to get rid of the excess water on his face and in his hair. "I could've drowned, you know. Then my death would've lay on your shoulders."

The room was as large as he'd imagined it'd be. Sleeping bags, pillows, and backpacks were scattered all over the room, leaving far too narrow paths for maneuvering between them. His bag was right next to the door, just as promised, and he grabbed it without another thought. He was ready to get out of there. _Thank God I can sleep outside and don't have to share the room with these guys._


	7. Chapter 7

Thomas awoke when he heard footsteps close by. He opened one of his eyes, peeked from beneath his lashes to see who was sneaking around this late-or rather, this early in the morning.

"I know you're up," a familiar voice said. "I saw your eye twitching."

Thomas groaned. "What's the—ah—time? It must be at least three."

"Technically, it's four, but it's close enough."

Newt looked almost as tired as Thomas had felt the previous evening: there were dark circles under the red eyes, his moves were a bit slower than usual, and his whole being radiated exhaustion. "You look like shit," Thomas commented, to which the blond gave a slight smile.

"You'd be looking like that, too, if you wouldn't get any sleep for four days straight." Newt crossed his arms and leaned against the wooden wall of the house. He didn't seem to be in a hurry, which could only mean that he'd stopped by just to talk.

"Four days? How can you even function without sleep for so long? I would probably fall asleep on my own two feet if I'd have to be awake for more than 48 hours at a time." Thomas sat up and stretched. He felt quite a bit better than he had before—nine hours of sleep could do wonders.

"It's something I've gotten used to, I guess. Besides, sleep is for the weak, am I right?"

Thomas cracked a smile. "If you say so. What're you doing here anyways? Came to check if I'm still alive and well?"

"Not really. You see this house, right?" he asked, pointing to the very building he leaned against. "I just so happen to live here."

"Oh. That even makes sense, in a way."

"In a way?"

"Yeah. That's a really good excuse to come all the way out here to check up on me. But hey, I don't judge."

This was his house? Did that mean all those paintings were his doing?

Newt's mouth opened to say something, but he thought better of it in the last second. His face hardened. "Good night, Greenie," he said, disappearing inside his house.

Thomas, taken aback by the sudden change in the blond's demeanour, didn't say anything. Had he said the wrong thing?

.oOo.

During the following week, Thomas tried out a lot of different jobs. However, he didn't like anything quite as much as Cooking.

By far, Slicing was to be the worst job to have. On a scale of one to ten, it'd be a two, and that's if he was being generous. The only thing he found enjoyable about it was the company: Winston, Dil, Hutch... They were nice lads, despite the fact it was creepy how they didn't find all the blood and raw meat the slightest bit repulsing. In contrast, Building ranked high in his mind; it was a solid six. The only reason it didn't get any more points than that was his inexperience.

Bricknicking scored somewhat low, four out of ten. It would've probably gotten more than that, but fixing other people's shoes all day wasn't really that good of an experience.

He tried out both Med-Jack and Bagger professions in one day. Most of the try-outs consisted of him answering a bunch of questions. ("Do you get light-headed upon coming in contact with blood?", "Do you know how to fix easier injuries?") He didn't think he was cut out to do either of those jobs.

On that same day, he'd gone to a building called the House of Arts. It was easily the largest building in the Glade; it had four storeys—he had no idea how the place hadn't collapsed yet—and it was a one minute walk wide. _...not that_ _I'd_ _know_. Inside could be found a ton of stuff that more or less had to do with Creative Arts. Easels, paint, musical instruments, books. Each floor represented one of the arts: writing, art, and music. When he'd asked what the fourth floor was for, he'd been answered with a vague "everything else". After getting a tour of the place, he knew he wasn't going to step a foot into that building again; he'd made a complete fool of himself when he'd tried to play various instruments, sing, and draw. He tried to convince himself that it was okay-all of them had gone through the same process of trying to find out whether or not they were good at anything—but that didn't exactly work out.

But that was all in the past now. What he needed to focus on in this moment were the try-outs for the Runners. In all honesty, he'd been waiting for this moment for almost a week straight, from the moment he learned who the Runners were and what they did. From what he'd gathered, usually all they had to do all day was to run around, making sure no Grievers or similar monsters climbed up the Death Circe. Plus, he'd get to see what waited for him on the other side of the walls. Sure, he'd heard vague descriptions, like how everything was really foggy and nothing could be seen anywhere, but it wasn't the same as seeing it with your own two eyes.

.oOo.

"I'm going to be honest with you," said Minho, the Keeper of the Runners, "it's more than likely you won't become a Runner. So don't get your hopes too high up."

The two of them were currently doing warm-ups, as Minho planned on letting Thomas run for a while. "We'll see about that."

The day was grey as could be, looking as if about to rain any moment now. It was the first time since Thomas' arrival that he'd seen the sky be anything else but blue, but he'd already grown tired of it—weathers like these didn't help the tiniest bit in maintaining a positive and an energetic frame of mind.

This was the first day Thomas didn't get the chance to meet with the other shanks doing the same job, but he understood why: they couldn't have performed their duties if they'd been there to witness Thomas' First Day of Running. Besides, even if by some miracle they could've stayed around, they wouldn't have had anything else do to but watch Minho test Thomas in various things.

Minho sent Thomas a look which, in all likelihood, said _Let's see what you say about that once I'm done with you._ "Indeed."

They continued their activities in silence. _Okay, I can do this. I just need to breathe_ _properly_ _and not fall into a pace too fast for me. That's literally all I need to remember. So. Two things._

He couldn't help but feel a clot of nerves forming in his stomach when he thought about all the ways he could mess it up. _Maybe I'm gonna face-plant right in front of him, or maybe I'm gonna get tired half-way through? What do I do then?_

As discreetly as he could, Thomas checked if his shoelaces were still in their correct position and hadn't untied themselves in the minutes he hadn't been paying attention to them. Fortunately, they were still tied. For this task, he'd gotten new shoes. It was only logical, now that he thought about it, as there was no way in hell he could've ran in the sandals he'd previously worn.

"You ready?" Minho asked.

Thomas gave a short nod. "Yeah. How long's the distance going to be?"

Minho hesitated for a second before answering. "Five kilometers. But if you think that's too much for you—"

"Nah, it's okay. I'll manage." _At least I hope so._

"Great. Let's get going then. I'm gonna try to match your pace, okay? If you feel like you're gonna pass out, just stop running; lord knows I don't need another death on my shoulders."

The boy's tone didn't change throughout his talk, so Thomas had to make his own conclusions and bet on the thought that nobody could die because of running. ...right? He gave Minho an uncomfortable smile, and off they went.

Minho kept true to his word and matched his pace with Thomas', moving a mere meter before him to show him the way. Although that shouldn't have been necessary, Thomas noted a lap later, as all they did was run right next to the walls—with a few exceptions here and there. Like when a small forested area blocked their way and they had to go around it, or when a fenced field stood directly on the spot they should've run across from.

They were on their second lap when they heard a faint scream. Thomas looked at Minho, trying to read his facial expression. Did he know what was going on? Was this normal? Minho's face, however, didn't convey any emotions whatsoever.

So Thomas chose to ignore the sound and continued running as if nothing was wrong. But when he heard it the second time, he couldn't keep his mouth shut anymore. "The fuck is that? Is somebody being tortured there?"

Minho stayed quiet. He glanced towards the Middle every now and then, though, which tipped Thomas off that the other boy wasn't sure what went on there.

"Shouldn't we go check it out? Maybe something's happened?" tried Thomas for the third time.

Minho shook his head. "You know what, you're right. You're absolutely right."

But when Thomas swayed from his path to run towards the Middle, Minho reached his hand out to block Thomas' way. "I'm going to find out what's happening, and you're going to keep running the laps. Got it?"

Thomas couldn't believe his own two ears. "Somebody might be dying over there and you want me to keep mindlessly running? What if I could help? What if—"

"Aren't you dramatic. You failed the Med-jack test; you couldn't possibly be of any help."

"You can't be sure of that," Thomas said, trying to run towards the Middle for the second time in three minutes. This time, Minho didn't stop him. In fact, he let him pass by without so much as a word.

A part of Thomas' mind revelled in victory.

"You might want to rethink that decision, though," Minho shouted after Thomas had put 10 meters between them. He slowed his pace, listening. "If you really want to become a Runner, finish the shuck laps. Or I swear you'll never see what's behind those walls."

Thomas turned around, his expression failing at being nonchalant. "You... what? You can't do that!"

"Can't I?"

Both boys stood still, holding eye-contact. Minho's eyes narrowed. Thomas was conflicted. Should he keep running the laps? Should he try to find out what had happened? Which was more important?

The answer was: both were.

Thomas couldn't think. What was the better option? What was the right thing to do? Should he do what was logical and expected of him, or should he give in to his curiosity? Because surely everybody must have heard the scream and were rushing to see what was going on right this instant. He wouldn't have anything to do there but watch, if that. If he'd stay here, he would get one step closer to achieving his goal.

However, instincts held a lot more power in terms of Thomas' behaviour than rationality ever would.

He shook his head, no. He had to know what was going on, he just had to, no matter the consequences. Thomas broke into a run, his back towards Minho. The latter caught up with him in no time, but despite what Thomas had expected, he didn't say a word to him.

"I'm surprised you haven't told me how stupid I am yet," Thomas spoke his thoughts. "That you don't try to make me understand how dumb of a decision I've just made."

Minho didn't bat an eyelash. "Why should I do something that you'll do to yourself anyway? I'd be just wasting my breath."

Thomas couldn't believe how full of himself the guy was. "You don't know that."

"Oh, don't I now?" One corner of Minho's mouth quirked up, as if remembering a funny scene.

Thomas huffed but stayed quiet; there was nothing he wanted to say to him.

As the buildings drew closer, the sound of multiple people talking over each other grew louder. It helped him find his way to his destination. A large crowd had formed a circle in one of the streets, near a lesser used section of the Middle. From what Thomas knew, this was the part where mostly the Highs spent time in. What on Earth could've happened there?

"Sorry," Thomas mumbled as he dived right into the crowd, pushing himself through it. Not a shadow of a doubt was in his mind; this must've been where the screams had come from.

He broke through... only to run into somebody's chest. "Shit, sor—Winston?"

"Don't come any closer," Winston said, his face grim, "or I'll have to use force."

Winston along with many others formed a tight circle around something, evidently with the orders to not let anyone through. Thomas tried to look past him but found it impossible—a huge dark cloth was being held up behind him, blocking the sight.

A line appeared between Thomas' brows. "What's going on? What happened?"

"Please step back," he repeated himself, his whole posture stiff. "I can't give you any answers as of this moment, and it would be for the best if you—"

"Winston!" _Oh, great, Minho's here_.

Relief? glowed in Winston's eyes. "Minho! Thank God you're here, we—"

"Let me through!" Minho ordered, to which Winston obliged by quickly stepping away, creating an opening.

 _It's now or never_ , Thomas thought, making a dash for it. Minho extended an arm to catch Thomas', but he was too fast. Winston yelled something, but that didn't matter, no, all that mattered was that he had to get inside.

And inside he got. He pushed the black cloth out of his way... and found himself from a tiny clearing. It took him a few moments to register what he saw.

On the left side, two boys held a hushed conversation, one of them waving around his hand as he spoke. In the centre of the circle, however, lay an eerily still body. It was the same girl—no, the boy, he corrected himself—whom he'd seen at the party all those days ago.

 _Fex?_ His head was on his left hand, his eyes closed. His legs were drawn close to him, as if he'd tried to form a ball before he'd passed out. Because that's what he was, right? Passed out?

Somebody's hand clasped around Thomas', pulling him away.

"What were you shuck thinking?!" Minho whisper-shouted, his face contorted in anger. "You can't just do that!"

Thomas yanked his hand free. "What happened to him?" he asked, his tone a mixture of fear and curiosity. "Is he... dead?"

Only now did Minho spare a glance at Fex's direction. His eyes widened as he took in the sight, but other than that, nothing gave away his surprise—if he even was surprised. "It doesn't matter; what matters is that you shouldn't be here!"

The pair's conversation had apparently piqued the interest of the two other boys. "What's he doing here?" a familiar voice demanded, furious. Galileo. One quick look confirmed what Thomas already suspected: Newt stood right beside him, his arms crossed and eyebrows knit together. But if he thought Newt looked mad...

"He just ran in! We couldn't stop him—"

Galileo pressed his thumb and index finger onto the root of his nose, scowling. "And why did you do that, huh?" he asked, eyeing Thomas. "Didn't the shanks surrounding this place tip you off that maybe, just maybe, you weren't shuck supposed to enter?!"

Newt placed his hand on Galileo's shoulder. "Calm down, okay? I'll take care of him." His voice sounded devoid of emotion.

"Take care of me? What about the guy lying on the ground? Shouldn't you—"

"Slim it!" yelled all three of them in unison.

Galileo gave Newt a look. "Be quick and come back as fast as you can, okay?"

Newt gave a nod. "Will do," he said, approaching Thomas. "You, come with me."

He clasped his hand around Thomas' the second Minho let go of his other one, pulling him violently along.

"Should I come? In case he tries anything?" Minho asked.

Newt's tone was cold as ice. "I'll manage, thanks."

Thomas' gaze darted around, trying to make sense of all this. Why couldn't he know what was going on? Where did Newt plan on taking him? As the two moved, he noticed something that didn't quite fit on Fex's dark skin. By the looks of it, a deep gash on his wrist bubbled with thick, black blood. _How the fuck_ _can_ _anyone's blood be black?_ Thomas was just about to ask that when he felt an even stronger pull.

He stumbled behind Newt, trying hard to find his balance again. Newt himself stopped as Thomas moved on, but evidently that meshed with his intentions well; without any warning, he gave Thomas a strong push, and Thomas fell to the other side of the cloth, face first. He thanked his lucky stars that Newt had been smart enough to let go of his hand as he fell, as he now could bring it in front of him to ease the collision. It still hurt, though.

"Up!" Newt ordered, already standing next to Thomas.

Thomas gulped down a few juicier words he wanted to say to the guy and jumped up, Newt's death grip on his arm returning. A meter before them stood the shanks who guarded the inner circle; Newt tapped onto one's shoulder, whispering something to him. The other one nodded and stepped back, motioning them to go past.

"Out of the way!" Newt yelled. "Let us through!" The crowd parted, granting the two an easy exit.

"Thomas, what was in there?"

"What happened?"

"What did they tell you?"

The rest of the boys followed suit, asking Thomas tons of questions all at once. But he didn't have any answers. He had no fucking idea what had happened, and he was too upset to make any rational conclusions. Was Fex dead? He was, wasn't he. Why else would they hide him from the rest of the Gladers?

"I..." He wanted to say he'd seen a dead body, that there'd been this weird wound on Fex's skin, but Newt cut him off before he could do so.

"I hear a single word from you, you're going to regret it for the rest of your life," he threatened.

And then there was Newt's uncharacteristic behaviour. Thomas had always thought of him as the nice type. Evidently, he'd been wrong.

It was like the world had stopped making sense.

When they were out of the crowd, Thomas dared to ask where they were going.

"Until we figure out what to do with you, you're going to the Slammer."

That didn't sound particularly good. "Why?"

"Because of what you did, you deserve to be there. Plus, we've got no other place to trap you in."

"Why do you need to trap me?" Thomas asked, his brain slowly starting to function again. "It's not like I can do anything if—"

"You can't talk your way out of this; it's just not going to work."

Thomas sighed. "Was he dead? Fex, I mean. And what was up with that wound?"

Even if Newt was surprised Thomas had remembered Fex's name, he didn't show it. "No, he wasn't. Can you please shut up now; you're giving me a headache."

As if Thomas cared about Newt's headaches. "Why was his blood black? What happened to him?"

"I can't answer to that."

"Why not?"

Newt gave Thomas a look. "Because you aren't qualified to know such things."

"What do you mean I'm not qualified enough? Isn't the fact that I just saw his dead body—"

"He's not dead—"

"—good enough of a reason to fill me in on stuff? Because I, for one, think it'd be the logical thing to—"

"You don't know klunk! You don't know half the things we know, and it can't be changed that easily! We don't even know if you—"

"If I what? Am trustworthy enough? Really? Aren't we past this?"

A muscle in Newt's jaw twitched. "You're getting on my last nerve, Tommy, and..." He trailed off, realising what he'd just said.

"Since when am I a 'Tommy'?" Thomas asked, one of his eyebrows raised.

Red spots of anger? embarrassment? appeared on Newt's cheeks. "Enough."

Thomas would've been highly amused of the other boy's words, had the circumstances not been so serious.

He tried a different approach. "If you don't tell me what happened there, I'm going to tell everybody what I just saw there."

Newt's eyes widened; he hadn't thought about that being a possibility. "No, you can't! You won't!"

"And why is that? The last time I checked, I'm quite capable of speaking my thoughts out loud, and not only that, but the other boys seem to be fairly interested in what I have to say, too, so..."

"You won't, because if you do, it'll have horrific consequences. To you, I mean."

"Oh yeah? And what would those be?"

Newt thought about it for a second, his cheeks not losing the flush. "You'll get banished. That's what'll happen."

"Banished?"

"Yes. As in, thrown out of the Glade, into the Death Circle."

Thomas was astonished. "You'd do that just to shut me up? Really? Isn't that too much?"

"No, it isn't. If that means you'd keep your holes shut, we'd do it. For the sake of others."

 _He must be bluffing. There's no way..._ "The sake of others? Don't the said others have the right to know the truth?" _Not that_ _even_ I _know the whole truth, but..._

"No, they don't. They couldn't handle it."

Thomas wasn't entirely sure he knew what they were talking about anymore, but he decided to just roll with it. "What do you mean they couldn't handle it? They're just as smart and sane as you or me, so what the fuck makes you think they wouldn't—"

"Because I know things you don't!" Newt huffed in frustration. "It doesn't matter. They can't know, and that's the end of the story."

"Fine then, don't tell me. But that's still not gonna stop me from telling them what I saw."

Newt raked his free hand through his hair. "Could you... I..." He took a few deep breaths in, attempting to calm himself down. "Fine. Okay. I'll talk about this with the others to see if we could tell you certain things but... Don't tell anyone anything 'till then, alright?"

Thomas couldn't believe he'd just said that. "Really? I mean, yeah, of course, but... You're not lying to me right now, right? Just to shut me up until you figure out what to do?"

Newt paled. "No, 'course not. It's just that I can't make this decision alone, and..."

"You _are_ lying to me, aren't you," Thomas said, squinting his eyes. "You were planning to do exactly that."

"No, I didn't. If you recall, I'm only Second-In-Command; I don't call the shots around here, Gally does. And it'd be me instead of you who'd get banished if I'd single-handedly make a decision as important as this one."

Thomas nodded although he wasn't too sure the guy was telling the truth. "Okay then."

A familiar-looking building stood at the end of the street, and Thomas asked in surprise, "The Slammer's in the Kitchens?" Where was the logic in that?

"No, it's behind it."

"But why?"

Newt sent Thomas a look. "Because why not? God, you and your trillion questions."

And indeed, as the two walked behind the Kitchens, a Slammer could be found. It even had bars and all. "Just one? What do you do if you need to put more than one people into the Slammer at the same time? Would they just share?"

"Just get in, will you?"

Newt let go of his hand—which Thomas had forgotten he had been holding the whole time—and nudged him towards it. "I have to get back."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Thomas entered the bizarre room, which apparently had been carved out of stone. Absent-mindedly, he wondered how difficult it must've been to get this thing done.

Newt stepped forward and closed the door with a giant padlock. "I'll come by later to tell you what the final decision is, alright?"

"Lovely," Thomas answered sarcastically. "I'll just entertain myself 'till then."

"Good that." With those words, Newt left.

 _Rude_. "You're not even going to say goodbye to me? Where are your manners?"

"Goodbye!" Newt yelled from a distance.


	8. Chapter 8

The room? cage? cell? turned out to be more uncomfortable than Thomas had anticipated. Sure, he hadn't expected a particularly enjoyable place to begin with, but this... He sat in a corner—which barely earned its name—with his back against the uneven wall. A small white-ish ball kept him company, entertained him by bouncing off into all sorts of radical directions.

The imaginary clock ticked by. Thousands of tiks and toks came and went, their rhythmic pace radiating sleepiness in small doses, almost hypnotic in their actions. It felt like Newt had been gone for hours. A part of him waited for his return, impatient to know what Galileo thought, but a bigger part of him hoped he'd stay gone for an infinite amount of time.

It was a fifty-fifty chance to trust him; he either meant what he said about considering the option to tell him everything, or he lied and plotted a way to banish him. Thomas didn't know him well enough to even try to make an educated guess, so he did what came naturally to him: he feared for the worst.

In truth, he didn't even know if Newt had been honest about banishing him if he'd say anything to anyone. On one hand, it seemed fucking ridiculous—be banished only because you spoke the truth—but on the other hand, it made sense—if they wanted to keep secrets from the majority of Glade's population, they'd need to do some tough choices.

The secrets. Thomas had no doubt in his mind the Highs had some info the others didn't, and it disturbed him. What the everloving fuck was so important only they were deemed worthy enough to know it? Did the Gladers even know the Highs were keeping things from them? _Maybe that's why there's the whole Caste system... So only the selected few would have the access to all the info? No, that's not a good enough reason. It could be one reasons of the many, but_ —

"Thomas? Hey, Thomas!" came a voice from the outside.

"Chuck?" Thomas asked, scrambling onto his feet. "What are you doing here? I thought I wasn't allowed visitors...?"

The kid walked into Thomas' limited view, his face looking down to him. "Well, technically... But whatever, that's not the point. Point is, what did you see there? We've talked about this with a few others, but we have no shuck idea, so I thought that maybe you could, you know, tell us? Tell me?"

 _Should I tell him, though? If I do,_ _everyone will know,_ _but more importantly, my deal with Newt's off. If we even ever had a deal and he didn't just lie to me. Which is also possible._

 _Whom should I trust_ — _Newt or Chuck?_

.oOo.

Thomas starved. He'd been in the Slammer for what felt like years, and nobody had bothered to come check on him, to bring him food. Although he couldn't have been sure of the actual time, he estimated about 12 hours had passed since he'd first come there. 12 _hours_. That was far more than Newt had promised him at the beginning.

 _Thud, thud, thud_. Footsteps.

Thomas moved closer to the exit, his aching muscles screaming at him. Being in the same position for hours wasn't probably such a good idea.

"Greenie, you there?" asked a voice. Newt.

"Where else should I be? It's not like I can exactly carve my way out of here."

First appeared Newt's legs, then the rest of his body as he crouched down. "Gally thought it best to hold a Gathering, so we... You do know what a Gathering is, right?"

Thomas nodded. "It's a meeting where all the Highs come together to decide some important stuff; yeah, I know."

Newt rose his eyebrows, opened the lock. "The Highs? That's how they call us these days?" The lock opened, and Newt pulled the door open. "Anyway, that's where we're headed right now. You're going to have a chance to stand up for yourself, and you better be bloody happy for that. Took me the entire day to convince the shanks, and even then they weren't sure." Newt stretched out a hand to help Thomas up.

"Uhm... thanks, I guess?"

Once Thomas got his feet under him, Newt let his hand go. "Just a thanks? D'you even know how much trouble I went through—"

Thomas eyed the other boy, stretching. It was great to be able to stand again. "What do you want then, a hug? Besides, I didn't ask you to do this; I just wanted in on whatever that is that I happened to witness."

Newt's expression didn't change. "And to achieve that, I had to spend my day and most of the favours they owned me to give you that shot. And now _you_ have to convince the—uh—Highs that you're trustworthy enough. So," he said, turning his back to Thomas to show the way, "as you can see, I did exactly what was asked of me."

Thomas rushed after him. Though, he had no idea what to say to him, so he just stayed quiet. _Can't believe he actually went out of his way to do that for me, considering it would've been a lot easier to just, well, lie. To not help me._

He must have had his own hidden agenda. No way he'd do such a thing just out of the goodness of his heart; no way. Newt had been there for two whole years, and he wouldn't have gotten to be such a high Rank if he'd been all nice and friendly the entire time. If he wouldn't have had to see the bigger picture. If he wouldn't have had to keep in mind what was best for the majority instead of one single person.

As they moved in the streets, more than one Glader threw curious glances Thomas' way. _News must travel fast_.

"Any tips for me? Anything I should keep in mind as I try to defend my case?" Thomas asked as they neared the building.

Newt's answer was a short no.

"Come on, not even one? Is it because you genuinely don't know, or you just want me to fail?"

Newt snorted. "Why isn't _I know but don't want to share it with you_ one of the options?"

Thomas considered this. "Nah, you wouldn't know. You wouldn't help me now just so I'd lose the whole thing in the long term. What I'm guessing is that you're either relatively new to the Second-In-Command thing, or you've just kept away from the Gatherings for some reason. Wait, no. I think you haven't had to deal with anything like this before, and that's why you don't know." Thomas' hands felt uncomfortably damp, and his heartbeat had sped up ever since they'd arrived to this street. Fucking nerves. Try as he might, he couldn't deny he felt rather nervous—who wouldn't? If Newt had told the truth, and so far, Thomas had no reason to doubt him, then this meeting decided whether he was going to get his chance at learning the secret behind the dead body. And that was a big fucking thing.

"None of those, either. You'd be surprised how many times... never mind. But if you must know, being respectful towards them, especially Gally, can go a long way."

Thomas widened his eyes. "Are you saying I'm not respectful?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."

"I've never been this insulted in my life."

A corner of Newt's mouth quirked up, if only for a second. "Wouldn't imagine you have. Also, I think it'd be fair for you to know... If you do a major screw-up here, there's a chance they'll banish you." He looked around as if he hadn't just dropped the news of Thomas' approaching death. "We're here."

The building had one storey and two tiny windows up high. The place the _Fex incident_ took palce couldn't have been much farther away, perhaps three buildings at most. However, nothing out of the ordinary stood out. _Of course they got rid of the body._

Newt opened the door... and let Thomas enter first. Again. He'd done that before, too, a long time back. "Uhm, thanks," Thomas mumbled, not sure what he should or shouldn't say. It's not like he had any previous experience with somebody holding a door open to him.

On the opposite side of the room were two large chairs, one of which was taken by Galileo. To get there, Thomas had to go by rows and rows of benches. The rest of the Highs only occupied the first two rows, leaving eight or so empty. _Why does this place even have so many benches if nobody ever uses them?_

Galileo's intense stare followed Thomas while he made his way to the front; the others couldn't bother with turning around. Eerie silence filled the room, Thomas' and Newt's soft footsteps being the only disturbance.

"Thomas," Galileo greeted with a nod, his brows furrowed. "Come, sit."

 _Alright, then_. Thomas could feel the Highs' stares drilling holes into his back as he walked to the chair next to Galileo and sat.

"So, Thomas, this is how it's going to be," he said once Thomas had sat down. "I ask questions, you answer them. I don't want to hear any justifications or anything, I just need the answers. Got it?"

Thomas crossed his legs in an attempt to feel a bit more comfortable. "Yes." His gaze went over the people before him. He recognised a few familiar faces—Winston, Frypan, the other Keepers—among the sea of unfamiliar ones, and relief washed over him. _They won't let anything bad happen to me._

"Good." A bag leaned against Galileo's chair, almost falling over. Galileo reached down to take a notebook from it. "What's your name?" he asked once he'd opened the notebook from the right page.

Why was that question even necessary? "I... Thomas."

"Still haven't remembered your name?"

"...no?"

"Age?"

"I've been told I look 16," Thomas answered, subconsciously searching the crowd for Newt.

"Do you have any memories? Has anything, even the tiniest of details, come back to you?"

"No, I... No."

Whispers erupted. Thomas couldn't make out what they were saying.

"You have to be completely honest with us; you do know that, right?"

"Yes—and I am! I honestly cannot remember anything."

"Well, then. Moving on. Do you think you're good at following orders?"

Thomas rubbed his hands against his pants in an effort to dry them. "I think so, yeah. Haven't had any problems so far..."

Galileo nodded. "Who do you want to become?"

"A Runner," Thomas answered, not a shadow of a doubt in his mind.

"If you couldn't be a Runner, who'd you want to be?"

Thomas hesitated. "A Cook."

Whispers.

"Quite different jobs you've got your eye on. Why's that?"

"I... uh, I'd like to be a Runner because I don't like sitting around all day, and I think I'd be fit for it. My second option's a Cook because I feel—ah— _comfortable_ cooking. It involves moving around, so that's always a plus."

"Do you get along with the other Gladers?"

"I think so... I mean, Chuck and I get along pretty well. Haven't exactly had an opportunity to get to know much anyone else yet, though."

"Why did you run into the circle today?"

And here it was, the question he'd been waiting for from the start. "I wanted to know what was going on, and it's not like I saw anything from outside the circle."

"Ever thought that there was a reason _why_ nobody entered it?"

"No. I just... ran in to see—"

"And nobody told you you couldn't enter?"

Thomas shook his head. "I—no."

"Winston?"

"He just told me to step away from him, not that I couldn't enter."

"What did you see once inside?"

Thomas gulped. "A body, it was lying on the ground."

"Anything else?"

"Uh, yeah, an open wound on his hand. And the blood that came out of it was black..."

"Any idea why that was?"

"No? Weird as fuck, though. Maybe something bit him? Something poisonous?"

"Was he alive?"

Thomas paused. "I didn't think so at first, but apparently he was."

"Ever heard of secret gatherings?"

Man, talk about jumping from one topic to another. "Um, the what?"

"I'll take that as a no, then?"

"Well, yeah. Never heard."

"And I guess that means you've never taken part of those, either?"

"No? How can I take part of something I don't even know exists?"

A muscle in Galileo's jaw twitched, but he went on. "Good. Now, is there anything you want to share with us that you think relevant? Anything at all?"

Thomas looked around, trying to gather his thoughts. Was there anything he wanted to say? Anything that could possibly show him in a better light? No, suppose not. "No, I don't think so."

"Good. Now," he turned towards the audience, "your turn to ask questions; one at a time."

A brief silence swallowed the room, and Thomas took a deep breath in. _It's okay, I can do this. I've done well so far._

...but nobody asked anything.

"No questions?" Galileo asked seconds later. "Fine, let's move on. Thomas, would you leave the room for as long as we discuss this? Arsy, you go with him. Make sure he won't eavesdrop."

Thomas, somewhat surprised by the turn of events, stood up, his eyes searching for the guy who was supposed to be his babysitter. And there he was, orange hair and porcelain skin. Average-looking. Arsy made his way out of the centre of his row, and Thomas walked to him, greeting him with a slight nod.

Everything was quiet until the moment the door closed behind them. Then, it seemed the room exploded with voices.

"...us! Who does he think he..."

"...he playing at?"

"...no way we let him..."

Blood drained from Thomas' face. What had he done wrong? He'd literally given all questions as honest answers as he could think of, so why were they doubting him?

"Keep movin'," Arsy said, nudging him from behind. "Didn't you hear? No eavesdroppin'."

"Do you know why they're so against me? What did I do wrong?" Thomas asked, turned around a corner. The other boy stopped and sat down, his back against the wall of a two-storey building. Thomas mimicked his actions.

"You really didn't think they'd believe you, though? They ain't that jacked in the heads."

Now that was an expression Thomas wasn't familiar with. Jacked in the heads? Well, he could sure guess what it meant. "What? I wasn't lying."

"Come on, dude. You tried, you failed, move on. The real question here is why."

Thomas gave an exasperated sigh. "No, the real question is what the fuck did I do wrong. Wanna be kind enough to answer that?"

"You for real? I—what?" It took him a couple of seconds to get back on track. "The memory loss thing—nobody loses all their memories. Shapes, colours, sometimes even people... they come back to you within first few days. You've been here, what, a week? No way you can't remember klunk."

Thomas stood up from his sitting position, too worked up to stay put. "Well, I fucking don't, okay? I literally don't remember shit, and—why the fuck should I even lie about it, huh? Think I have some precious memories hidden away? Something that'd help us in any fucking way? Because yes, I sure do, as my life's purpose is living in this Glade until the end of time; you sure got that right." Thomas paced around, unable to stop moving. They all really thought that? Thought he'd lied? "Fuck."

"Whoa, calm down, man. If that'd be the only thing wrong with your side of the story, there'd be no way they'd banish you. Just sayin'."

Of course there was more. Fucking Newt, couldn't he have warned him about all that? Couldn't he have given him a tip that "hey, people in fact can remember a few things over time" (Sure, that meant Thomas would've had to lie in there, but it wouldn't have been that bad... he'd rather lie than get banished) or tipped him off about whatever the hell Arsy was going to say now? _Being respectful goes a long way_ , Thomas mocked Newt in his mind.

"You sure you wanna hear all that, though? It's a hell of a long list." What Thomas heard was, "You just managed to screw up. Majorly. Majorly enough to get banished."

Thomas sent Arsy an impatient look, his fingers messing with the hem of his shirt. Nervous, that's what he was. Scared, too, perhaps. Who wouldn't be if their survival would depend on a bunch of teen boys that were skeptical as hell and thought the world of themselves?

"Despite what you said, Winston did tell you not to enter the circle, so there's that. Oh, and the Runner-Cook thing, not cool. Who'd ever believe you'd be into such different things? Only shows you want to climb higher in the..."

Arsy went on, but Thomas spaced out. _Now it turns out nearly everything I said was suspicious, and—fuck. I'm so Screwed. Screwed with a capital S._ But couldn't he stomp back in there and explain? They had to believe him, right?

"Where do you think you're going?" Arsy asked, alarmed. "You can't go back before they tell you to—hey!"

Thomas was already around the corner, his mind set. He couldn't let these people kill him because of such dumb reasons; he couldn't. Not when there was anything he could do about it. Strong arms closed around his chest, yanking him back violently.

"Let me go! Or I swear to God, I'll—"

"Shut your holes, Greenie! You ain't going back in there, not now. And trust me, you don't wanna fight me; we both know I'm stronger than you."

Thomas let out a sharp breath. "And I think we both know that it isn't going to stop me from doing just that." A second later his leg made contact with Arsy's private parts.

Arsy cried out in pain, and his grip on Thomas loosened enough for Thomas to get free. "You son of a bitch!" he roared, although it didn't come out half as threatening as he'd probably intended it to be. The mask of pain on his face didn't exactly help his cause.

Thomas raked his fingers through his hair, breathing heavily. _What am I doing?!_ "No, I—I'm just—sorry. Don't know what came over me." While that wasn't true per se, Thomas knew he should get his shit together and fast. Nerves were no reason to get into a fight with a guy twice your size and get your arse kicked; he knew better that that.

"You better be sorry," humphed Arsy, his voice angry. Fortunately, he didn't make a move towards Thomas, so Thomas thought he was safe, at least for now.

He continued with his pacing. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into a dozen minutes... and nothing. Not a single beep from the Skizzle—which was another name for the Court House—and nobody came out looking for him. _Maybe it's a good thing, though?_ he tried to console himself. _If they take a lot of time, it means they don't make any rash decisions, and that they think everything through. It has to mean that_.

Logically, if a random Glader would've done what Thomas had, they would've gotten a shit ton of time in the Slammer, and they would've had to promise not to say anything. That'd be it. Probably. But no, Thomas had had to do things on his own terms and demand to know what was going on.

However, as much sense as it made, he didn't regret it. He needed to know the real deal behind the incident; he needed to. As if something inside of him told him he had to figure this out. Weird, really, but there was no other way of explaining it.

The slightest of noises caught Thomas' attention. His gaze darted to the sound. Newt had opened the door and motioned for him to go in. Thomas' stomach twisted itself into several knots, making him feel extremely uneasy. What had they decided?

Upon entering the building, all eyes turned on him. Every last one. What made things worse was the fact he couldn't read their faces enough to try to predict the final decision.

"After careful consideration," began some shank Thomas hadn't ever seen before in his life—and whom was immediately nicknamed Redhead—"we've come to the conclusion you cannot be trusted with the... knowledge... you requested to get access to. Moreover, we find the fact you were bold enough to even ask such a thing highly alarming. We also find that should you want to not get banished, you must handle the following punishments. You are to sleep in the Slammer for the next two weeks, and you're only allowed to leave for work; food shall be brought to you. You must swear not to tell anyone what you saw today; if you do, you shall be banished. As for your job, you're now officially a Slopper of the Night, meaning your work hours are from five in the evening to five in the morning. Do we have an agreement?"

Thomas stood in what could only be called a shock. There must've been a mistake somewhere; he couldn't be reduced to a Slopper, much less a one of Night. And two weeks in the Slammer? Really? He'd barely managed to survive a few hours in it; how would he survive two whole weeks?

"No." No way in hell would he agree to all that bullshit. He cleared his throat. "That's ridiculous! I can't even begin to list all the things wrong with that so-called punishment. If I'd agree to it, I'd be giving up my social life and basic living conditions. Not only that, but you also would give me a job that I believe all of us know," his hand made circular movement to adress the people in the room, "isn't nowhere near the potential I have for other, more important jobs. So no, I'm not agreeing to this shit punishment that violates basic human rights. I can't."

Thomas had expected a storm of shouts and comments—or at least whispers—but everything stayed quiet.

As if they'd predicted this.

* * *

A/N. I know. I'm sorry. I just had to break this scene in two. _Had to_. Also, I think it's important to mention that what you're currently seeing is only the second draft. There may be mistakes. I apologise for that. Anyway. What do you guys think will happen? Are they going to banish Thomas? Yes? No? Maybe? If yes, will Thomas survive the night in the Maze? How? If no, are they going to give him some other punishment? If so, what? I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Toodles!


	9. Chapter 9

"We understand you're upset, but our offer still stands. You either get banished or you agree with our punishment. Your choice, really."

Unbelievable. How could they do this? Did they even know what they were trying to force on him? He'd be a fucking slave, that's what he'd be. Working twelve hours a day in the worst job there was, no human contact whatsoever, stone for bed...

Well, he might as well try another approach.

Thomas took a deep breath in and embraced himself for what was coming next. As he breathed out, he forced his body to relax, and he even managed to stretch his face into a smirk. "Right. Okay. I must say, even though I saw it coming, I wanted to believe you wouldn't do this. Really, I did. But whatever. See, it so seems I have an offer to you."

Whispers. Although he was scared to death inside, his exterior stayed nonchalant.

"Preposterous! I—" spoke the shank who'd been talking before.

However, Thomas cut him short. "I honestly don't give a rat's arse what you think about it. But I kindly suggest you to shut your mouth and listen up." He made a small pause for the sake of getting his point across. The whole room exploded after his next three words. "I told Chuck."

No clarification was needed, as everybody seemed to understand what he was trying to say. The previously ever so calm shanks now stood up from their chairs, yelling, or they turned to their neighbours to exchange worried looks and rushed words.

Galileo's face went red, while Redhead's lost all its colour. "You're bluffing!" yelled somebody, although their tone implied even they didn't believe their words. "No way you told—"

"Is that so?" Thomas asked, arching his eyebrows. "Then why is it that I seem to recall a conversation between him and I, in which I told him about the dead body? In fact, I told him to pass it on to others if something would happen to me—something bad. So. Here's my offer. You guys let me become a Runner, you let me in on all your secret stuff, and we'll forget all this ever happened. But if you go through with your, uhm, punishment, you better bet everybody in the whole Glade will know what took place today morning."

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. No doubt they tried to figure out whether Thomas told the truth or not, but the majority of them seemed to believe his words, Galileo being one of them. His hands were clenched into fists, and his gaze could kill. He looked like he wanted to call another meeting. But he couldn't.

Thomas noticed Newt only when the latter stood up from the second row. His furrowed brows indicated he hadn't expected such a turn of events, but other than that, his face remained completely blank as he made his way to Galileo.

"You—we shuck told you not to tell a soul about this, and then you..." Galileo shook his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his two fingers. He sounded angry. Probably because he was.

Newt took a couple of larger steps to get to Galileo, and when he arrived, he whispered something into his ear. Thomas would've given a lot to see Newt's facial expression. Three seconds after the whispering, Galileo gave Newt a look, to which Newt responded with another whisper. What on Earth were they whispering about?

Galileo nodded to Newt, and Newt sat down again, this time into the first row. Galileo's gaze turned to Thomas. "Okay."

More than one High voiced their disapproval, but Galileo shut it down with a simple hand gesture. "You heard me. The kid wants to become a Runner, then so be it."

Galileo's words barely even registered in Thomas' mind, but he nodded nevertheless.

"So that's it?" Redhead asked, incredulous. "You let him be a Runner just like that? And he doesn't get any—that's shuck insane! He overstepped the Rules—as well as Chuck! The only rational thing to do here is banish them both!"

Galileo raised his eyebrows. "You think we should banish not only Thomas, but Chuck, too? Cedric, he's _twelve_!"

Redhead—Cedric—maintained intense eye contact with Galileo. "So what? He's as guilty as Thomas if he agreed to his stupid plan! Besides, he's only a Slopper, right? We wouldn't lose anyone important."

Galileo's eyes narrowed. "It's not your place to call the shots."

"I wasn't," Cedric defended quickly. "I was just pointing it out. It's hardly fair what's happening now, is it?"

"You and I are going to discuss this," Galileo said, his voice authoritative. "But until then, everything stays as said. Meeting over."

.oOo.

Thomas sat in his sleeping bag, his back against the wall of Newt's house. His head tilted upwards, so he could see the sky with all its stars. He didn't want to lay down, as it would've made him sleepy, and sleepiness was something he wanted to avoid; he had better things to do. Like think about things. And maybe wait for Newt's arrival. Who knew.

All the excitement from winning the case was long gone now, and he was able to think more clearly. Logically, Galileo should've sided with Cedric; he should've agreed on banishing both Thomas and Chuck instead of giving in to all those conditions. Thomas had no doubt in his mind that Galileo had his own agenda.

He fell asleep hours before Newt's return.

The next morning, Thomas walked towards the Kitch, rubbing his eyes. It was supposed to be his first proper day as a Runner, and he was pumped... kind of. He'd managed to overthink things, and he wasn't sure what to expect from anyone, really. The situation was far more complicated than he'd first thought, so his only plan was to wait and see.

He hated that plan.

Thomas stifled a yawn as he turned a corner... well, he would've turned a corner, had he not been yanked back. Before he could even comprehend what was happening, everything was over, and he found himself from inside of a building. The door closed with a _thump_.

"What the—" he began but was cut off by a hand on his mouth.

"Keep quiet, will you? We need to make it fast," a hushed voice said directly into Thomas' ear.

Thomas wished it wouldn't have been so dark and he could've seen who his attacker was. Since the strangers' hand was still covering his mouth, he nodded.

"Good. Listen, everyone's been told to keep away from you; to avoid speaking to you. Certain shanks have also been told to act a certain way, to say things they don't mean. You understand? Don't trust much of what you hear. If someone's acting not like himself..."

The stranger had removed his hand while speaking, so Thomas could now come up with a response. "Yeah, I get you. But why? Why's all this..?"

He more like sensed than actually saw the stranger shaking his head. "I can't tell you."

With those words, Thomas was thrown back out again, and the door closed shut before he could see who'd talked to him. He stood there for a second or two, trying to process all that had just happened. He tried opening the door again to see whether the other boy was still in there, but the door turned out to be locked.

He continued his way to the Kitch, eyeing his surroundings carefully. His thoughts were all over the place, but they didn't help much, no. Because he couldn't have known whether the other guy had told him the truth or not, if he'd played a weird trick on him.

There was a long line of people waiting to get their food; the Highs were already sat at their tables. Nobody seemed to notice Thomas' arrival—he debated if that was because what the stranger had told him was true, or because it was morning and nobody had the energy to socialise—so he joined the line as unnoticeably as a shadow.

The line got shorter and shorter as the minutes passed, and finally it was Thomas' turn. "Hi, um, could I get some soup and bread?" he asked, his tray firmly in his hands.

Although the guy behind the counter, Tolen? gave Thomas what he'd asked for, he avoided eye contact. Thomas found it incredibly weird and awkward, considering how Tolen was two full years older than him but seemed to be afraid. Of Thomas.

Thomas walked away from the counter as fast as his legs took him, only to stop a couple of moments later. Where was he supposed to sit? On the ground, as always? But wasn't he a part of the Runners now? And weren't they considered the Highs? And didn't the Highs sit at the tables?

He was conflicted.

With the slightest of shrugs he set out towards the said tables. Before he arrived to his destination, he'd changed his mind about this at least seven times. At this point, the only thing that kept him going was his stubbornness. Although there were quite many tables with empty seats—the Runners must've left by now—he didn't have a shadow of a doubt in his mind regarding which table he was going to sit at. The one where Newt, Galileo, and Minho ate.

"What, exactly, are you doing?" Newt asked after Thomas sat down next to him, the opposite of Minho and Galileo.

Galileo sent a look at Newt, and the latter answered with raising his left eyebrow and nodding his head.

Thomas had no idea what all this meant. "What's it look like I'm doing? I don't know how good your sight is, but if you can see even half decently, then you should probably be able to figure it out on your own."

Minho's eyes flew heavenward.

"My sight's just fine, thank you. I should rephrase my question. Why are you here? Hasn't anyone explained to you who can and who can't sit at the tables?"

Thomas took his time with the soup, trying to come up with an answer. However, before he could say anything, Minho opened his mouth. "Oh, he knows alright. It's just that he wants to rub it into our faces that he got special treatment."

Galileo sent a quick look at Newt before speaking up. "He did not get special treatment." His voice was pointed and had a clear undertone: we'll talk about this later.

But he had gotten special treatment; even Thomas himself knew it. He had no fucking idea as to why, but he was set on finding it out. "The reason I'm here is that I'm a Runner now, no? And aren't the Runners a part of the Highs? And don't the Highs sit at the tables?" While speaking his earlier thoughts, he looked everyone in the eye one at a time. He went after another spoonful.

"You aren't a Runner, dumbass. You haven't even begun your training yet. Honestly," Minho said, now talking to Galileo, "I don't think we've ever had to deal with quality morons like him."

A corner of Newt's mouth tugged upwards. He looked exactly like he knew something Minho didn't.

"Excuse you, but I'm pretty certain I was told yesterday that my training would begin the next day. Last I checked," he paused, pointing at the sky, "it's another day. Wonderful, isn't it? How a day becomes into another day with just a tiny little night keeping them apart. The next thing I want to mention is that I'm also fairly sure that all Runner candidates get to sit at the tables. So you might want to rethink what you just said." He had no idea if the Runner candidates got to sit at the tables or no; it'd been a shot in the dark. Outwardly, however, he remained calm.

"Can't argue with that logic," Newt said. Was there a note of amusement in his voice?

Out of the blue, Galileo stood up. "We're done here," he said, locking eyes with Newt.

Newt's face hardened, and he grabbed his tray. Galileo nodded to Thomas and Minho.

Thomas tore his gaze away from their leaving figures and turned himself to look at Minho. "What the hell was all that about?"

Minho shrugged. "Hell if I know."

.oOo.

Taking into consideration what he knew from before, Thomas' mind had a clear idea of what Minho was like. In three words: stubborn, introverted, confident. He had muscles—they could be seen even from under his long-sleeved shirt—dark hair, and a great posture. He was about the same height as Thomas, maybe a centimeter or two shorter. Anyway. Thomas just knew this whole training to become a Runner thing had high potential of becoming a giant pain in the ass, as Minho had evidently developed a mild dislike for him. Thomas would have to figure out a way to change that, and it wasn't going to be easy.

"So, where are we going now?" Thomas asked. They'd walked for about three minutes now, having given away their trays, and he wasn't still any closer to figuring out their destination. "And what are we gonna do? Run again?"

Minho stayed quiet for so long, Thomas began to doubt he'd even heard his questions. "I'm not sure your two brain cells will be able to process this, but you see, in order to run, you need proper equipment: shoes, comfortable clothes, and once you're a real Runner, a backpack. Among other things." The pitch of his voice dropped in the middle of the first sentence a note or two. It was almost like he'd remembered something important.

They entered a forest. A small building came into the view, peeking from behind three large birches. Finally. As anything else in the Glade, the building was made of wood. It had only one story, and it wasn't notably big for its size. It had one round window, and it was located right next to the door.

Minho opened the door and stepped right in, not bothering to look back to see whether or not Thomas was still following him. Which, of course, he was. Inside, nothing could be seen. It was pitch black.

The distinct sound of a match against a matchbox filled the air, and a fraction of a second later, the tiniest of flames could be seen floating around. Minho brought it closer to a block of—oh. A candle. The room filled with suspicious shadows. The small amount of light coming from the lone candle wasn't by far enough to illuminate everything that needed to be illuminated. Minho had already thought of that, though. He lit up a few other candles by using the flame from the first one.

It was a medium-sized room that had two doors, if one didn't count the front door. One door was on the right side of the room, and the other was on the left, mirroring each other. The entire room was filled by tables. Lots and lots of tables. It was like table heaven. Every single one of them had papers on top; they seemed almost out of place with their vibrant pink colour. They were in neat piles, and Thomas couldn't decide which bothered him more: their colour or the fact that everything was so tidy and clean.

Now that he could finally see, he dared to step farther into the room to examine the papers more closely—the curiosity ate him alive. On top of the closest table lay the neatest pile of them all. The very top paper had... had...

"Hey!" Minho shrieked, grabbing Thomas' attention. "You can't look at those!" He dropped whatever he was holding onto the nearest surface and dashed to where Thomas stood, pushed him away. "Seriously, stay away from them."

What was so special about those weird lines? Because really, the paper was just full of random lines.

Thomas gave an over-dramatic sigh. "You brought me here, and now you aren't even gonna let me see your amazing collection of line combinations? Man, I'm devastated. But why am I here for, then, if not for giving my opinion on your pink papers?" He didn't want to admit it, but he was a bit afraid of the other boy. Minho was strong, but that wasn't the main reason for it; it was the fact Minho was the Keeper of the Runners. He could make Thomas do pretty much anything with the excuse that what he was doing was _extremely important_ and _needed to be done_.

Thomas was afraid he'd have to do mundane jobs and wouldn't ever get out of the Glade to guard the Death Circle, to see the damn thing with his own two eyes. Because in all honesty, the Glade was becoming more and more suffocating for him each day he spent there, and he couldn't wait for the moment he'd get out. He needed this.

"Ha-ha," Minho said sarcastically, not amused the slightest. "We're here so I could show you the running equipment. You know, we talked about this on the way here."

Thomas felt uncomfortable. He would've liked to move around, but he wasn't yet sure how many things he could get away with, so he decided the best tactic would be to wait and see. He hated that tactic. He made it one of his top priorities to figure out who exactly was Minho, why Minho disliked him that much, and most importantly, how to act around him.

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

* * *

A/N. A new chapter! Yay! I wanted to thank everybody who has given me feedback on this fanfic; you guys are amazing! Honestly, your comments make my days. However, I encourage you to express your thoughts even more—not all feedback has to be just about the good things. (Although I'm incredibly thankful for that!) What do you wish to see in the future? Are there any characters you don't like? Do you think there's more going on than meets the eye? Have the characters said or done anything that hint at potential future/past events? Anyway. Even if you don't comment, I'm still thankful you've decided to read this fanfic. Kisses!


	10. Chapter 10

Minho found three o'clock the perfect time to grab a snack from the Kitch. (When Thomas asked if Frypan would get mad at them for doing so, Minho answered they needn't worry about him. Apparently, the Runners had the privilege of getting their food whenever the hell they wanted to, especially the Keeper. Thomas asked no further questions.)

Minho knocked on the Kitch's front door three times before entering, Thomas close behind. The smell of a porridge-in-the-making had taken over the room. Thomas' stomach rumbled.

"Oh, hey, Minho, Th—" Frypan began from behind his counter, stopping mid-sentence. His gaze hopped back to Minho and stayed there. "How many times do I have to tell you—"

"Ha-ha," Minho said, the corners of his lips quirking up. "Just give us some food, yeah? You know the drill."

Although Frypan pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes smiled. He put away the knife in his hand—by the faint aroma lingering in the air, one could tell he'd been chopping cucumbers—and walked to a nearby cupboard. "I have your..." Upon opening the cupboard's door, a rush of white substance fell to the floor with a soft _humph_. Frypan squinted his eyes at the mess and pinched the bridge of his nose.

However, Minho didn't seem half as frustrated, if raised eyebrows and a dimple in his cheek were anything to go by. "And the Flourboy strikes again. This is, what, the third time this month?"

Thomas, who'd noticed the front door was still open, closed it. He couldn't help it, he felt like a third wheel. Obviously Frypan and Minho were friends, and he hadn't quite yet reached that status with either of them.

Frypan gave a slight shake of his head. "Can you imagine, after all this time? I would've thought— _hoped_ would be the better word—he'd give up after a while, you know? Stubborn little brat."

A knowing smile took ahold of Minho's features. "Right? What's been it now, a year?"

"Almost exactly a year, yeah. Okay, anyways, I'm gonna grab something from the back and possibly bring some back-up; there's no way I'm cleaning all this klunk up alone. Stay right here, and for the love of God, don't touch anything." With those words, Frypan exited the room from the back-door. He didn't have to look at Thomas for him to know the last warning was meant for him.

Minho brought his right hand up to magnify his voice. "Well, hurry up, will you?" And then, in mumbles, "I can practically feel my hairs getting grey already."

Thomas chuckled. "He's been gone for literally five seconds," he noted.

Minho turned to face him. "Yes, but that's not what's important. What _is_ important is that I've wasted five, soon to be more, seconds of my life on waiting for food that I was supposed to get in an instant. I'm never gonna get those seconds back, man."

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "And what would've you done with those seconds?"

Minho shook his head whilst glancing upwards. "Probably thought of a way to end world hunger, but now we'll never know, will we?" He stalked towards the cabinet Frypan had previously used and grabbed a few cucumber cubes from it. He shoved them into his mouth, in the process forming the universal hush sign.

 _...maybe that warning wasn't meant for me after all. Who knew_. "Don't you think he'll notice?"

"Oh," Minho started, mouth full, "he'll notice alright. But we won't be here when that happens."

Thomas liked that plan. "What's up with the flour thing, though? I mean, who does that? And why?"

Minho, while grabbing more cubes, said, "Can't tell you, it's a secret. Wait... are those—" He dashed away from the cucumbers, back to Thomas. A moment later, the door opened, revealing Frypan and two other Cooks, Tolen and Case. The latter ones each held a plate in their hands, which by the looks of it, were meant for Thomas and Minho.

There was a line between Frypan's eyebrows, and his eyes were narrowed. Something was wrong.

Minho leaned in closer to Thomas. "Take your plate," he whispered, "and wait for me outside, okay?"

Thomas looked him into the eyes, gave a small nod. An uncomfortable silence fell upon the room while Thomas made his way to Tolen, took the plate with pancakes, and left. During the whole process, nobody looked him in the eye, hell, they didn't even look at his general direction. Something had happened, and once again, Thomas wasn't allowed to know what exactly it'd been. _That's all gonna change when I'm officially a part of the Runners. Then they just can't hide things from me_.

Intense whispers broke out the moment he shut the door behind him. For a brief moment, he tried to listen closely in hopes of catching a few sentences here and there, but all the sounds blended into one. He gave up shortly after he realised this.

With nowhere else to go, Thomas went to the Eating Area. Conveniently enough, it was right around the corner.

Minho came looking for him about ten, maybe twenty, minutes later. His whole demeanor had changed from happy and somewhat sarcastic to thoughtful and solemn. A strange glint in his eyes gave away he wasn't actually in this world at the moment. _What the fuck happened in there?_

Minho took a seat on the other side of the table, put his hands on the surface, and rested his head on them.

 _Okay, let's look at the facts here. Frypan was mad or confused about something, but he wasn't so before going to get the other Cooks. That means that either Cooks told him something in that short period of time or somebody visited the far end of the Kitch to drop off the news. The second, although plausible,_ _isn't_ _very likely. So. The Cooks told him something. Frypan confronted Minho about it. Minho got upset for some reason. I don't think it's because he wasn't aware of the thing Frypan told him_ — _he seems to know almost everything around here_ —a _nd that means..._ That means the info Frypan learned was something that was being kept a secret from him, and now that he found out, he was pissed. Was he mad at Minho or everyone who kept it from him in general?

Thomas's gaze lingered on Minho. His scrunched up posture and short, shallow breaths indicated things had been personal. "So," Thomas said a few minutes later, "what secret did you try to keep from him?"

Life poured into Minho in a matter of seconds. He sat up straight, his gaze accusing. "What?"

"You do know that keeping secrets from your friends never does anyone any good, right? They always come out one way or another."

"You shuck—you listened to us through the door!" Although he didn't mean to do it, the sentence sounded more like a question than anything.

 _Which means I was right._ "I didn't. It's rather obvious from the way you're acting right now."

Minho squinted his eyes. "Is that so? Are you trained in reading body language or someth—I mean, not that you're right about anything."

Thomas humphed. "The question is not about whether or not I'm right; the question's what secret were you keeping from him?"

"I wasn't."

"If you say so."

"...Okay, maybe I was. Not that it's any of your business."

 _Knew it_. "Never said it was. Wanna talk about it?"

Minho's face expressed so many different emotions at once, it almost looked emotionless. "You're trying to mind-fuck me."

"Why would I?" Honestly, Minho was right. Thomas himself had trouble understanding why he acted the way he did. It was almost like his real personality had taken over—the one he didn't remember ever having. Now that he thought about it, the same feeling had overcome him when he was at the Skizzle and trying to get himself the better end of the bargain.

Minho shook his head. "I don't know, but it's weird." Confusion was evident in his voice, as if his brain was trying to process multiple things at once and thus not being able to process anything at all.

"No, it's not. You're just making it weird." Thomas almost felt like he didn't have the control over what he said. Which was absolutely ridiculous.

"My brain. It hurts," Minho complained.

It took Thomas ten minutes of convincing before Minho agreed to tell him what he wanted to know. "It's not even that big of a deal, really," Minho began. "This Runner, Lahey, got badly injured a few days back. Has been at the Med-House ever since. The thing is, Lahey's one of Fry's closest friends. I didn't want to tell him what'd happened because I knew he'd freak out. We wouldn't have gotten good food for a week straight, you know; he just is like that. Besides, Lahey looks like absolute klunk. We—we're not sure if he's gonna make it."

 _How badly can one get hurt by running in circles all day? The worst that should be able to happen is_ _stumbling_ _over your own damn feet_ _. The fuck did Lahey do?_ _Oh no. He got bitten, didn't he?_ Although he really wanted to get the answers to those questions, he knew Minho had reached his absolute limit of what he was willing to tell him. "Poor guy. No wonder you didn't want Frypan to know."

.oOo.

The evening rolled around, and Thomas sat at the table, eating some horrid-looking porridge. _What's this even supposed to be? Oatmeal? Sure doesn't look like it._ An extra large piece of cooked carrot attached itself onto Thomas' fork, slimey as all hell. _Tastes like absolute garbage_ , he thought as he put the said carrot into his mouth. _The things I have to do in order to get something to eat around here._

A quick look around the table told him the others weren't quite enjoying their food, either. However, nobody came out and said it, which was odd. Normally at least one of them would crack and complain.

Thomas finished his plate first out of the whole table—which was something that'd never happened before. He took his dishes and left, giving everyone a questioning stare right before doing so.

Once the dishes were in their rightful place, he headed off towards his sleeping bag. There wasn't much for him to do anyways, so why not just call it a night?

As he went on to do exactly that, a familar mop of curly hair walked by. "Chuck?" Thomas asked.

Chuck's shoulders tensed up, but he didn't stop.

"Hey, Chuck, wait!" Thomas took a few large steps to reach him. He then proceeded to go in front of him, seeing as there was no other way of putting a stop to Curly's attempt to run away.

Chuck tried to escape by maneuvering to the left. Thomas prevented that by mimicking his actions. Chuck tried the other way, but the result stayed the same.

Giving up, he looked into Thomas' eyes. "What?"

Thomas was taken aback by Chuck's cold tone. Sure, he wasn't expecting overwhelming friendliness, either, but... "Are you alright?"

"As soon as you let me leave, yeah," he stated, crossing his arms.

"I—um—did something happen?"

"What makes you think that?" Chuck asked, his face not portraying a single emotion.

"You normally aren't like this... What's going on?"

"You haven't known me for even a week; I wouldn't say you know me well enough to know who I normally am or am not. Now, can I go?"

Although Thomas didn't give a single indication of moving away, Chuck somehow saw it as a win and dashed by him.

Thomas was left with mixed emotions.

.oOo.

The next few days passed by in a blur. He continued his training to become a Runner, and consequently got better acquainted with Minho. The guy didn't turn out to be half as bad as he'd thought, not that he'd thought him to be awful to begin with. They had a similar sense of humour, which of course was a big plus. As for Chuck, Thomas didn't see him once. He didn't know if it just happened to go like that or Chuck was genuinely ignoring him. The two of them weren't good enough friends for Thomas to feel bad or anything, but it still bothered him on some level.

The food hadn't gotten any better. If Minho was right, then they had a few more days to suffer before getting to eat decent food again, provided Lahey's condition didn't worsen in that period of time.

Every time Thomas asked about how Lahey managed to get injured by running circles, Minho pretended not to hear. That one time he got really annoyed at Thomas for asking the same thing over and over again, so he'd shaken his head and said, "I literally cannot tell you that, you understand? Not until the day you become a Runner."

Today, Thomas was excited. It was the day before the official end of his training, which meant tomorrow was the ceremony. (Apparently every time a Greenie got himself a proper job, the Gladers threw a party. They called it the ceremony because, well, in a way it was one. Thomas wasn't one to complain.)

Most of the Gladers kept on ignoring him. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't talked to anyone else except for Minho, Galileo, and Newt. The latter two he only spoke with during the meals, and even them only a couple of words at a time, so did they really count? He'd of course tried to speak with other Gladers as well, but they never answered him. The conclusion was that the stranger from that one day had been right: Galileo really had given everyone an order not to speak with him.

Today, Thomas wanted to visit the graveyard. He had no other motive to do it other than he was curious about the number of people who'd died during the Glade Experiment.

Because that's apparently what all this was, an experiment. He'd learned that a day ago when Galileo and Minho discussed it at lunch. Well, truth be told, they didn't come flat out and say it; they were talking about different theories as to why they were there, and this was just the most logical one. (The full theory was that they were in a radical reality TV-show. Everyone sent to the Glade had previously agreed to it because they'd get some sick money from it once the show came to an end.)

Thomas pushed some branches out of the way and stepped into a small clearing. The graveyard. A quick glance told him there were only seven crosses poking out from the ground. _Only? God, there should be none. If this really is a reality TV-show, then there shouldn't be anyone fucking dying._

He inched closer to the first cross; it was about a meter and a half in height. Nothing too fancy, just two large branches put together, and it didn't seem to be all that old, perhaps two months the most. What captured his attention, though, was the small wooden plate hanging down from the cross. He leaned closer to it, careful not to step on the bumpy part of the ground, to see the writing. _Ite, a Runner, 1.07.02. Death from a Griever bite_. From what he knew, it meant the twenty-third day of the eleventh month of the second year from when the Experiment started. That was about... three? months ago. What a way to go... He must've suffered so much. He shook his head and moved on to the next grave.

This one was a tad bit smaller. It read, _Vetica, a Runner,_ _2.11.16_ _. Death from a Griever bite_.

Another one read, _Connor, Keeper of the Runners, 2.03.17. Death from suicide_. However, the last word was, rather clumsily, struck through, and something else was written above it. Thomas examined it closely, and finally concluded it must've said, _a broken heart_. He didn't know what to think about that.

Two other crosses stated their owner had died from suicide. The sixth one there said, _Nick, a Builder, 3.02.11. Death from the Box. Let this half-shank be a warning to all: You can't escape through the Box Hole._

Dear God, this was like, what, a month ago? Thomas stepped away from that one fast, feeling creeped out.

 _Okay, this's the last one_. The cross reached about a meter in height, and it's plate read, _Stephen, a Cook, 1.01.31. Death from falling off a wall_. The 'n' from the guy's name was extra small, as it wouldn't have fit onto the plate any other way. It felt bittersweet seeing this.

Thomas let out a long breath. He couldn't help but wonder what those guys' life must've been like. How they— _ouch_! Thomas tripped over something and fell, brought his hands in front of him to soften the blow. A _thump!_ was heard the moment his hands touched the ground. What in the world? He pushed himself up, now kneeling. A patch of brown could be seen from under the grass and leaves; he cleared out the area more to make out what exactly was hidden under it.

A coffin. A real, almost full-sized coffin. Thomas scrambled away from that place as soon as he discovered it, horrified. Why was this coffin so near the surface? And why wasn't there a cross?

His panicked mind found it best to cover the freaky thing up again. _It's gonna be like I was never here_. As he did that, he noticed a faded writing near the top of the wooden box. It caught his interest immediately, as it was so different from what he'd seen on the other graves. Unfortunately, he couldn't make out what was written there; the nature had done its work. The only part that was readable was the most bottom part: _21/06/01_. It must've been the date of death, but... why was it written backwards? Shouldn't the year come before the—what was that? Thomas' head snapped up; he looked around. He could've sworn he heard someone's footsteps nearby. _Fuck_. He finished up his task quickly and left, not once looking back. _That was horrible. I'm never doing that again. Never._

He got the off sense of somebody's eyes on him. "Hello?" he asked. He kept walking, however, as he was too spooked out to dare stop.

Nobody answered. He was planning on calling out once more, but...

Something heavy jumped onto his back, forcing him to fall. The air was pressed from his lungs, and it hurt like hell when his face made direct contact with the ground.

"You're not real!" screamed the person from the top of Thomas, his words nearly incoherent. "Shuck get out of my head! Why do I keep seeing you?!" He hit Thomas on the back with his fists, hard.

Thomas struggled to free himself from the lunatic but with little success. "What the fuck are you on about?" he asked in return, trying to hit the guy with his feet.

"GET! OUT! OF! MY! HEAD!" he screamed, hitting Thomas with each word he spoke. "YOU'RE DEAD, YOU'RE SHUCK DEAD!"

"Get off of me!" Thomas managed to turn himself to such an angle that he could push the lunatic off, which he of course did the very second the opportunity came. He scrambled away from him, and when he felt he had enough distance between them, he stood up and ran. The guy very nearly caught up with him multiple times, and every time it happened, Thomas got a mini heart-attack.

"HELP!" he yelled when they neared the Middle and there was an actual chance of being heard. "He's—" _Oomph!_

The stranger tackled Thomas to the ground once more, causing him even more pain than the first time.

The world blurred, blended into the colour black with a couple of brighter dots among it. And then, the weight was lifted from him. Thomas gasped for air, a part of his mind irrationally fearing he'd lost his sight for good. The noise coming in barely made any sense; the distorted sounds could almost be seen as colours. The world was fucked up big time, and it was such a relief to sense everything coming back together again.

"Co—Thomas! Are you okay?!" Thomas couldn't understand whose voice it was, but it must've come from that blurry shape up above.

"Have been better," Thomas answered. The words came out slow and scratchy, not at all like his usual tone.

"You look—Jeff! Will you hurry up?! And you—Rist— go find Clint! Go!" Newt. The voice definitely belonged to Newt. "You... just don't move, okay? Don't shuck move. I'll be right back." The shape bounced away, leaving Thomas stare at what ought to be the sky.

 _Deep breaths in, deep breaths out. You're okay. Pull yourself together, and you'll be grand._

The sense of smell came back first. Dirt, primarily, and sweat lingered in the air, became fractionally stronger with every breath. Hearing, yes, he could now differentiate farther off sounds from the ones closer. ("—Keep him still! I swear to god, if you let him go... Gally!—") He struggled with getting his sight back to normal; his eyes wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't focus. Dark figures dashed around him, some of them were in a bunch somewhere farther off. _Come on, FOCUS!_

"Thomas!" This Jeff had evidently arrived.

Jeff's face popped into Thomas' field of vision, investigating something in his face. "I can't focus my eyes; I can't see straight! Do some—" _Slap!_

 _Bitch hit me!_ "Did you just—whoa." Sharp as a knife, everything around him. He could see particles of dust flying around, not to mention other people's detailed bodies.

"Better?" Jeff asked, pulling Thomas from the ground into a sitting position.

"Thank you, I..." The words ran out the moment he saw a crazed boy, eyes bulging out of his head like the ones of fish out of water. Veins in his arms popped out in a way that wasn't natural, and the strangled noises he made... A Bagger and a couple of Builders held him in his place, not letting him move a centimeter.

"...and maybe put some..."

Thomas hadn't realised Jeff was still talking to him. "Excuse me," he said, distracted. "I need to..." Ignoring all the pain, ignoring Newt's order to stay put, ignoring his best judgement, Thomas stood up and faltered towards the small crowd. Towards _him_ , his attacker.

The veins were black, and his forehead glistened with sweat. He looked so out of it.

"Thomas, what are you—"

Thomas punched his attacker square in the jaw, unable to contain himself. A lot of yelling ensued; a pair of hands pulled him back. He didn't fight it. Instead, he spat out a blob of blood.

"Calm down! We must all just calm the shuck—"

"Ley?" Frypan's voice echoed across the clearing. Everything went quiet; even the birds stopped singing. Gladers' heads turned. "Oh my God, Lahey...?"

A large circle had formed around Thomas, Newt, Galileo, and Thomas' attacker, who turned out to be Lahey. Wait. Wasn't Lahey Frypan's best—Fuck.

"What are you doing to him? Let him go! He hasn't done anything wrong," Frypan said. His hands trembled as he reached out to push the Builders away from his friend. "What have you done to yourself...?" he whispered, but it was more of a rhetorical question than anything.

Everybody's eyes were on Frypan; nobody dared to move. Thomas caught on to things quickly: Frypan and Lahey must've been together. He couldn't imagine any other reason as to why Frypan sounded so incredibly devastated.

Lahey brought his head closer to Frypan's, tilted it to the left. "Fry?"

"For the love of all that's holy, you've managed to outdo yourself this time. Y'know," Frypan spoke, "I really thought you couldn't do anything more stupid than the Pickle Incident, but... guess I was shuck wrong, wasn't I?"

Some kid in the circle whispered quite loudly to somebody else, "What's going on? Why's everything quiet?"

Frypan turned around in the speed of light, his gaze fixating on the poor boy who'd opened his mouth. "You! Shut all your holes right now, or I swear to God, you're gonna find out what it feels like to get your eyeballs poked out of your head one at a time and fed to you."

The boy turned green but stayed quiet.

"I don't—what's happening? Why am I here?"

Frypan's attention was back on Lahey in an instant. "Because you shuck moron went ahead and got yourself the Bite. I told you, didn't I, that you'd end up like this one day. But no, you wouldn't listen, had to do your own thing. ' _It's the only job I want to do_ ,' you said. ' _I can't imagine doing anything else_ ,' you said. Well, here's your shuck pay for it."

"I didn't—I'm sorry." Lahey had trouble pronouncing the words, as if his vocal cords tired fast.

"Sorry. Sorry? Like a shuck sorry's gonna cut it."

"What about..." Lahey whispered, his head moving even closer to Frypan's, their mouths now mere centimeters apart.

Before anything could happen, Lahey's body jerked violently, and the crazed look came back to his eyes. The Builders kept him in place although it wasn't a simple task. Frypan stumbled away.

The bubble popped. Birds came alive once more, and the Gladers awoke from their silence. It was as if a colony of ants had woken from a deep sleep.

The crowd swallowed Frypan.

Thomas blinked.

"Drag him to the Pit," shouted Newt, his hand pointing towards the general direction of where they should go, "and tie him up! Now!"

The crowd broke out in whispers and yells. Thomas inched closer to Newt. "Hey," he began, touching Newt's shoulder to gain his attention. "what the fuck's going on?"

Newt shuddered but turned around. Dark blue bags rested under his bloodshot eyes. His brows furrowed. He didn't look sixteen or seventeen at that moment; he looked more like thirty. An unfamiliar gleam watched back at Thomas from Newt's dark, blue eyes. "Remember Grievers? Bloody Lahey over there got stung by one a couple of days back. And this," his gaze fell upon Lahey, "is the consequence. Only gets worse from here on out."

"You're gonna keep him in the Pit all that time?"

Newt's face lost all emotion. "Not really, no."

* * *

A/N. Hello! I'm back once more to bring you a new chapter. Unfortunately, I'm not too sure when the next one's coming up, as my exam period is starting, and I likely won't have the time to work on this story for the next three weeks. But who knows. Maybe I'll try to hide myself from the stress by drowning myself into the world of writing. At any rate, I just thought I'd give you all a tiny warning. I hope you're still enjoying the story, though!


	11. Chapter 11

The sky glowed orange, red, and yellow, marking the upcoming sunset and closure of the walls. The Gladers gathered around the East Wall, each of them holding a pitchfork in their hands. None of them made a single sound; the cloud of anticipation surrounding their mournful figures made sure of that. The boys knew the following incident was inevitable.

Lahey's screams came closer. Thomas didn't have to turn to know he was being escorted by two Baggers. Surprisingly, nobody twisted their head towards the direction the sound came from; the boys stared straight ahead. A guy next to Thomas seemed on the verge of tears, and the lip of a young boy in Thomas' left quivered. Thomas didn't dare search anyone else's face, as the ones he'd already seen made him depressed enough. And he didn't even know Lahey! The ones who knew—meaning quite literally everyone else—must've felt a thousand times worse.

 _This isn't normal. This i_ _sn't_ _okay. They're forced to kill a friend of theirs. I can't imagine what effects it'll have on them in the long run, especially if they have to do it multiple times a year._ Thomas closed his eyes shut for a few seconds too long after he saw the state in which Lahey was in. He'd pulled out patches of his hair, his clothes we're in awful condition, and it seemed he'd tried to chew through his own hand. His irises were completely black, the dark veins on his hands had reached his neck and face. The latter was covered with snot and tears.

The two Baggers who kept a hold of Lahey maintained cold expressions, as if what they did wasn't at all that horrifying. The crowd parted from the middle, letting the three through. The Baggers shared a look before pushing Lahey into the clear space on the other side of the circle of boys.

"Just listen to me, okay? Just shuck listen?! I'm feeling so much better—I swear!" He made a dash towards the mass of people, but the boys stuck out their pitchforks and poked him with them, which forced Lahey to give up. "Guys, you know me! How—" he said, his next sentences unintelligible.

Thomas' heartbeat was erratic. _They're really going through with this. They're killing somebody of their own._ The same thoughts twirled around in his head, despite his knowing Lahey was on his way to die anyway, as the poison of the Grievers was too strong, and they had no antidote.

"Please, I beg you—" he managed to say before his words turned too desperate for understanding.

Minho appeared from out of nowhere, and thew something—a bag?—onto the ground farther away from Lahey, between the walls. Galileo and Newt made their way next to Minho. The former said, "You are hereby banished, as you're too dangerous for yourself and everybody around you. You have your bag along with some food and water. From now on forward, it's your business how you survive, not ours. I speak in the name of the whole Glade by saying you were a great person, a good friend, and a damn good Runner. Without you, we wouldn't have come half as far as we have, and we thank you for that."

Newt, who stood next to Galileo, seemed absolutely broken. "I will never forget the days you and I worked together in the—Death Circle. I admit, I didn't like you much when you first came up here, but over time I... You were the best partner I ever could've hoped for, and you were such—" his voice broke, "— such a good friend."

A couple more people said their goodbyes. Then, it was Frypan's turn. "I have nothing to say to you that I already haven't said. You were a dumb shuck shank from the very beginning—I have no idea why I took a liking in you." He let out the saddest laugh Thomas had ever heard. "When I was still a Greenie? You tried to convince me to become a Runner. A Runner! Remember that? It was so absurd, I laughed you out right then and there, but you never gave up, did you? No, you kept on trying. I never understood why—you knew me for what, a week? Even less than that. You—" his voice reached unbelievable heights, his words all jambled together. Soon after that, he stopped speaking. "I hate you so much right now; you have no shuck idea," were his last words.

A loud boom echoed throughout the Glade.

"Fry! Fry Fry Fry Fry!" Lahey yelled. "I trust you! You betray me! Your fault your fault your fault all of it!" The circle of boys poked him with their pitchforks, but he didn't step back. "YOUR FAULT THIS ALL YOUR FAULT YOU KNOW THIS YOU SHUCK KNOW THIS!"

Thomas neared Lahey with the other boys, pitchfork aimed right in front. He felt emotionally weak. Seeing all this unfold before his very eyes was hard, so fucking hard. The fact he didn't know the guy made this all the more surreal to him.

"Connor!" Lahey stared straight at Thomas, his eyes out of focus.

Thomas jumped. By no means had he ecxpected Lahey to address him of all the people standing there, no matter the wrong name.

"You shuck lying piece of klunk! DON'T PRETEND LIKE YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON BECAUSE I KNOW YOU DO I KNOW YOU SHUCK DO YOU'RE JUST FOOLING EVERYBODY ELSE HERE BUT I KNOW WHO YOU REALLY ARE AND YOU'RE A LIAR LIAR LIAR LIAR YOU'RE A LIAR! YOU BETRAYED ME YOU ALL BETRAYED ME BUT I WOULDN'T HAVE EXPECTED IT FROM YOU CONNOR NO I WOULDN'T HAVE BECAUSE WHAT WE HAD WAS SPECIAL ONLY TWO PEOPLE WHO'VE COME UP TOGETHER CAN UNDERSTAND..." He continued on. The circle around him couldn't have been called a circle anymore, no, it was a tiny piece of land in front of the closing walls, maybe a meter in width.

He was pushed between the walls and wasn't let back in.

Thomas was fucking terrified. Hadn't he been so taken aback from Lahey's words, he would've probably shed a tear or two. He felt so incredibly sorry for Lahey, he almost wished he'd really been his friend Connor. Then at least he would've gotten to say goodbye to the right person.

The walls were dangerously close now. Lahey realised all this too late. He sprinted towards the other side, but he was too late, he was too fucking late, he couldn't have made it even if he'd got the ability to fly. The large, stone walls closed in on him while he was still between them, crushing him. Over all the sounds the moving walls made, Thomas could swear he heard bones breaking.

And he heard a cry so sad, so hopeless, just a second before all of it took place.

.oOo.

Thomas' welcoming Ceremony took place in open air near the Gardens. There were no chairs, and the Gladers had to either sit on the ground or stand. Most of them preferred to sit. Thomas found himself a spot somewhere in the middle. All eyes were on him, two-thirds of them showing disapproval. How dare he have his Ceremony a mere day after Lahey's death?

 _It's not like I can do anything about it_ , he defended himself in his mind. _I'm not the one who can call the shots and postpone important events, not even when the whole said event is about and for me._

Galileo, Newt, and Minho made their way to the front. Galileo didn't seem to be affected by the events of the day before—his posture and expression remained authorative. Dark circles were around Minho's eyes, but other than that, he seemed fine. However, Thomas was impressed with the way Newt held himself. Not taking the bags under his eyes into consideration, he looked fine, and definitely not like somebody who'd been crying the whole night.

"Although we've gathered here today to officially make Thomas a Runner, I have a few things to say first." Galileo made a small pause before continuing, held Newt's hand. "Yesterday was an awful day for all of us. Truly. In my entire two years I've been here, I've never witnessed such a violent death. Considering this, I believe we all should take the next few weeks a bit easier. I don't expect quality work from any of you, no matter your Ranks, as your emotional well-being at the time is more important than your usefulness to us. If you feel like you want to take a day or two off, that's fine, go for it. The other thing I wanted to talk about is Frypan. He's no longer the Keeper of the Cooks, as he wished to resign, and Don will be taking his place. Okay, now that this's out of the way, we can start the Ceremony."

Of course he's quit; who wouldn't after going through what he just had? Still, it came as a surprise to Thomas. He couldn't imagine the skinny, weak-looking Don taking Frypan's place.

"Okay. Now, let's move onto the real reason we're all here–Thomas. Would you please come up here?"

Thomas awkwardly pushed himself up from the ground and moved forwards, his gaze hopping from one Glader to another. They didn't want him there, didn't give a rat's arse whether or not Thomas ended up a Runner or no. But to Thomas, this was important. He'd been waiting for this moment ever since he learned what a Runner was, and he wasn't going to let the moment become any less significant than it needed to be.

Galileo, Newt, and Minho stood in a semi circle, and Thomas stopped right before them.

"Being a Runner," began Minho, "is a responsibility, first and foremost. Nobody in this field can afford to forget that. You aren't doing this for yourself, and you for sure aren't doing this because it's the easiest option out there. You're doing this to protect the other Gladers, to help make this place safer. Do you understand?"

Thomas' gaze never left Minho's. "Yes."

Newt took over. "By becoming a Runner, you'll acquire a Rank much higher than you're used to as of now, and that brings even more responsibility to your shoulders. You're not to abuse that power. If you do, there are consequences. Do you understand?"

Thomas' answer didn't change.

The same thing went on for another ten minutes: one of the three spoke about his new responsibilities and tasks, and Thomas had to confirm that he had in fact understood.

"Very well then," Galileo said. "One last thing. You cannot under any circumstances keep crucial information from the Gladers, no matter how important you deem the reason. Understood?"

"I do find it a bit hypocritical, but yes, I understand."

Galileo blinked a few times, his mind trying to make sense of what Thomas had just said. "Excuse me?"

"The lot of you keep a lot of secrets from the rest of the Glade, ones that I believe are important, but I'm not allowed to do the same?"

Newt sent Galileo a look before taking over. "Why would we do such a thing?"

Whispers broke out in the crowd—this wasn't a normal occurrence at these types of gatherings.

"I don't know, but I'm gonna find out. And then I tell the others."

The three boys in front of Thomas exchanged looks. Minho shook his head, gaze upwards. "Sure, you do that. Let's see how that's going to work out for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing."

Newt steered the conversation back to the right course. "Moving on. Thomas, now that you're aware of your new responsibilities and rights, you must promise you will follow them. Or have you got any questions?"

"Yeah, no, I'm fine. How does this promising thing work? Do I just have to say that I promise or…?"

"You're gonna repeat what I say exactly as you hear it. I'm gonna stop after every sentence, so you'll know when it's your turn." Newt bent his head to the left, then to the right. He cleared his throat as Minho gave him a piece of paper.

"I, Thomas, promise to follow all rules the Glade has to the best of my ability. I promise not to abuse the power I'm getting by becoming a Runner, and I promise to do my part of the job..."

While Thomas repeated the sentences, a random Glader offered Galileo a sharp knife.

Once Thomas was done, Galileo stepped forwards. "In order for the promise to become real, you have to do the Bloodshake. You and Newt both make a small cut on your hands and then shake them. It seals the deal."

Thomas stared at the knife as if it had personally offended him.

"Since when does Newt take Bloodshakes? It's always been you?" a random voice called from the crowd, talking to Galileo.

"That's a great question. As it turns out, Sidgen, cutting your hand open every single month isn't good for your health. Plus, it's painful. So Newt volunteered to take turns with Galileo on the cutting part." Minho said, to eveyrone's surprise.

"I would've announced the change before, but it's a quite recent decision, and we haven't had the chance to call a Glade meeting yet." Galileo nodded once and then turned to Newt. He motioned him to continue.

Newt reached out his right hand, and Galileo gave him the knife. The former then made the smallest of cuts on his hand's index finger. He didn't even flinch; not a single muscle moved in his hand or face. However, his head was lowered in such an angle that left the impression he felt embarrassed? Shameful? Uneasy. Once a tiny row of blooddrops appeared on his light skin, he offered the knife to Thomas.

Thomas' eyes narrowed as he accepted it. _For all I know, Newt's HIV positive. I could literally die if his blood comes in contact with mine.—Oh, grow up! What are the chances of that ever happening?_ Before his brain could once again argue with itself, Thomas made the cut. It hurt, as was expected, but he was surprised how little he actually felt it. His left hand trembled as it tried to find the right amount of force to apply to the finger.

Galileo stepped forwards, and Thomas gave the knife back. Then, Newt brought his hand in front of him, extended it for a handshake. Thomas gave his hand one last look of suspicion before shaking it. Both of them—Thomas intinctively knew he had to do it as well—pushed their index fingers together as they did so. Newt's eyes didn't meet Thomas' the whole time. Then, it was over.

Somebody gave Thomas a strong pat on the back. "Good job; you did it. Be at the Kitch tomorrow morning, okay?" Minho walked away without waiting for an answer.

The people that had sat down, stood up.

"This is all for today! Go by the Party Zone; there's a table full of goods! And don't forget to make a toast for Tommy-boy here, okay?" Minho said, his voice booming across the field.

A few shouts from the crowd indicated the message was understood.

Thomas stepped closer to Newt. "Hey, you alright? You seem a bit pale."

Newt held his head in his left hand. "I'm, uh, I'm fine. It's been a long day."

"If what you're telling me would be true, Galileo over there wouldn't look half as worried as he does now. Just saying," Thomas commented. However, he wasn't going to push it. He left Newt alone after giving him a soft squeeze on the shoulder.

As he followed the swarm of people to the Party Zone, he realised he was genuinely worried about Newt. _Look at you, at it again with all the over_ _-_ _thinking. He probably just has a headache or something; give him a break. Maybe that's why he didn't tell you the_ truth— _he must be sick of people always worrying about him_ _. Looking like a lost child at all times of the day isn't easy._

No fancy party was held for Thomas, and he was glad. He knew from his tour with Galileo that it's a tradition to throw a party in honour of the boy who changed his Rank—majority of the time it meant somebody grew out of the Greenie status—but it was also a tradition to keep quiet and to themselves three days after a Glader's death. So, a Quiet Party was thrown. Basically, it meant gathering around the few tables that had been brought sometime earlier and eating the snacks. It made the atmosphere sorrowful yet friendly, an odd mixture.

Thomas hung out alone. Nobody came over to congratulate or just talk to him, and he didn't want to bother others by going to them himself. Newt and Galileo never made it there, unlike Minho who arrived ten minutes after Thomas.

Loneliness planted its roots into Thomas' heart. He crushed them with imaginary acidic rain.

* * *

A/N. Hi there! Another day, another chapter. Unfortunately, I'm not writing this Author's Note because I have anything good to tell you. I'm going to Finland soon for about five weeks, and I'm not sure if I'll have any Internet connection there. Apologies in advance! Also, I've been asked when Newtmas starts happening and let me tell you: soon. There will be something relatively huge happening in about 5-6 chapters, and it will be the turning point in Newt and Thomas' relationship. I can't really tell you what it is without spoiling a few things, but as a hint I can say that the event will be written from Newt's POV. :)


	12. Chapter 12

It was his first day as a Runner. The entire Glade, however, seemed to be coated with a layer of grief. Even the leaves that usually danced around in the soft wind had now given up on the thought, staying firm in their places and facing downwards, as if it was their way of offering the Gladers their condolences. Thomas hated Lahey for dying at such an inconvenient time; he hated himself for having such horrid thoughts at a time like this.

He turned out to be one of the first persons to enter the bathroom. Only one other shower was running, but since the curtains were surrounding the small area, he couldn't tell who was there. Didn't matter anyway.

The bathroom's layout was rather simple. The entire right side of the room consisted of a long row of sinks, mirrors covering the wall up top. The showers were on the left side. There were ten of them in total, same with the sinks.

Thomas chose to use the second shower from the door. He placed his bag of clean clothes onto the tiny chair right next to the shower. Then, he closed the curtains around him.

The water was soft, nothing at all like the rough raindrops. It had always been that way, but on this particular day, it irked him. Was a bit of rain too much to ask? Or, better yet, a storm, complete with lightning and thunder. He would've loved to get hit by thousands, millions of raindrops so cold, they've nearly reached their freezing point. He couldn't even pretend the scenario, as the water escaping from the shower head was much too different from actual rain.

His eyes closed shut as he shook his head, raising the shower head higher, above his head.

"Dear shuck God, Thomas! You scared us half to death!"

Thomas' eyes opened wide. He was lying down, apparently, his head supported by at least three pillows. Instinctively, he brought his legs closer to his body; his gaze hopping around as if he were a deer in headlights. Colours blended into each other, and shadows around him had odd shapes.

Everything clicked. His eyes focused, revealing he was in a room of sorts. To be more specific, he was in the Med-room.

"How did I…? Why am I…?"

Clint and Jeff stood on either side of Thomas' bed, looking rather pale. Minho and Newt could be seen standing in the far corner, near the door.

"Let's all relax, okay?" Clint said. He made a point to lock gazes with everyone in the room, one at a time. The sleeves of his white shirt looked damp, as if he had spilled a glass of water on them about an hour ago and not bothered to go change. Thomas was the last person Clint's gaze turned to. "We're not entirely sure what happened to you… You just… You…"

"You spaced out. Didn't respond to anything. We figured you might have more answers than us," came Newt's voice. Something was off about his tone, but it was difficult to understand what exactly. Since he stood in the corner, his entire figure was covered in shadows, but it could still be seen how his eyebrows had sunk into a frown. His hands were crossed on his chest, his gaze unreadable from afar.

"How should I know? One second I'm at the showers and the next… Wait." Thomas looked down at his body and sure enough, he had no clothes on. Some kind soul had had the great idea to cover him with a blanket, though. He refused to think about how he must've gotten there.

Sweat broke out on his forehead.

Jeff opened his mouth for the first time since Thomas had woken up. "Has this happened to you before? Have you ever felt like time didn't flow the way it's supposed to?"

His first thought was to say no. He'd remember it if he'd lost minutes… _hours?_ at a time. "How long have I been out of it?" he asked, unwilling to look at anyone. Instead, he stared at the door straight ahead. He more felt than saw Jeff exchange glances with Clint.

Jeff said, "About two hours."

Damn. He concentrated on his breathing, as his heartbeat still hadn't slowed from the frantic pace. "I don't–I don't think it's happened before," he finally managed. He was glad the others weren't pushing him into talking, that he could take his time. "I'd know if it had. But you said you're not sure what's wrong with me?" Thomas was still tense; he held a death grip around his legs.

Clint shifted on his legs. "We, uh, thought you have a rare kind of sickness. You know, that you were born with but can't remember having since you have no memories."

Thomas nodded, considering it. "It's possible, I guess. But I've never heard of anyone having a similar condition?"

"Yeah, well, neither have we. If you have any other ideas, let us hear them."

Newt pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against. "Actually, I thought of something. I've been here a long time, but not once have I met anyone who couldn't remember his name. Not once. So maybe the Creators, I don't know, gave you an overdose of that forgetfulness syrup–or whatever the shuck they gave us–and what you're experiencing right now is its consequence?"

"Could be," Jeff agreed.

Thomas, realising he was still pathetically clinging onto his feet as if they were his saving grace, let them free. He didn't straighten them, though; they were his small wall between the roomful of people and him.

"Before we continue this fascinating topic, could Thomas please get his clothes? I'm feeling a little uncomfortable with his being here stark naked while we pretend not to know," Minho said, his tone humorous. It was a great way to ease the tension in the room.

"Sure," mumbled Clint, ushering the others out. "We'll be back when you're ready."

"Wait! Where are my clothes?"

Since Clint had already left, Jeff answered instead. "On the chair next to you."

Thomas looked in the direction given to him. "Oh."

The door closed with a soft _thud_.

After Thomas had bolted from his bed and dressed up the quickest way he knew how, he yelled, "Y'all can come back in now."

The boys had waited in the corridor, evidently exchanging whispers. Minho raised his eyebrows. "'Y'all'? What are you, American?" He re-entered the room after giving Thomas a friendly shove and brought a whole new atmosphere in with him.

"I could very well be American," Thomas argued.

"The hell you are. Have you ever heard yourself speak? My best guess is that you're Polish."

Thomas widened his eyes. "Polish? Really? Then explain how I don't know a single word in Polish."

"Babe," Minho said, stepping closer to Thomas and briefly putting one hand on his shoulder. "The Creators stole our memories. Our _memories_. How hard do you think it must've been for them to erase your entire knowledge of a language?"

"Sweetie," fired Thomas back, mimicking Minho's actions and placing his right hand on his shoulder, "why would they do that? There's nothing for them to gain from making us stupider than we originally were." He let his hand fall and walked to the bed, all the while shaking his head. "Too damn bad that you only have one functioning brain cell in that pretty little head of yours."

Minho gasped dramatically. "How dare you insult me? You won't get away with this. I'm telling Galileo."

Now it was Thomas' turn to give a loud gasp. "But-"

"Don't think I won't."

Thomas' fell on Jeff, Clint, and Newt, out of which the first two looked as if trying to comprehend what had just happened. Meanwhile, Newt's face was entirely unreadable. "Well, this is awkward," Thomas stated the obvious. "I wasn't aware you didn't understand sarcasm. My bad. Anyways, is there anything else we have to discuss? I mean, I'm feeling pretty good. Can I go and start with my first day, or…?"

"About that," Newt said before anyone else could, "we thought it'd be best for you if you took the day off. You know, just in case."

Clint took over, revisiting the topic they'd already discussed before. "Are you absolutely positive you haven't experienced anything like this before? Anything. Jumps in time, blank spaces in your memories…?"

"No, nothing."

Newt gave a nod. "Very well, then. Hopefully it was a one time thing. If at any point you feel weird, report it to Clint and Jeff, alright? Or if you can't find them, Gally or I. Or anyone, for that matter."

"Yeah, absolutely." Thomas found it better not to mention the fact he hadn't felt any sort of warning signs before the Incident had happened. "But I really feel fine now. Don't worry about me."

"In cases like these," Jeff said, a light smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "it's our job to worry."

Clint agreed. "If we wouldn't, God knows how many shanks would hurt either themselves or the others."

 _You think I'm going to hurt either myself or the others when I'm having one of my episodes?_ He was smarter than to ask it out loud. "I really am fine. What are the chances it'd happen again?"

Jeff sent a look at Clint. "Do you really wanna get an honest answer to that?"

Everything fell quiet, and Thomas stifled a yawn.

"Okay, we should let you rest now. You know where to find us if you need anything," Clint said, already inching towards the door.

"Yeah, get some sleep." Newt slipped out of the door; the rest followed him.

Before Minho closed the door behind him, he said under his breath, "God knows you need some serious beauty-sleep."

Thomas stared at the door for a while before realising he should probably lie down.

.oOo.

"Thomas? Oh, Thomas?" asked a voice dripping from over-the-top lovey-dovey tones.

Thomas refused to even open one eye, not to mention two. "G'way!" He was so tired. It felt as if he'd slept for only a couple of hours, although the reality was probably much longer.

"Enough jokes. Wake up." The change in the tone was drastic.

Against his wishes, Thomas was forced to open his left eye.

"That's more like it." Minho had been crouching down but now he straightened up. "You, me, in the Kitch, three minutes."

Thomas couldn't even begin to think of an answer; Minho had already escaped.

"Dude, was this really so incredibly urgent? I couldn't even use the bathroom. And," Thomas said, leaning close to Minho and whispering loudly, "I really need to use the bathroom."

Minho's gaze moved heavenwards. "Fine, go use the bathroom. I swear to God, if you're not back in five minutes…"

"I'll be back in four!" Thomas promised.

Sure enough, he was back in four minutes. "Don't know what I would've done if I couldn't have–"

"Listen, today's an important day. No, scratch that, _the most important day of your life_." Minho motioned for Thomas to sit onto the seat on the other side of the table.

Thomas did as he was told. The plates carrying breakfast were already placed before the pair of them, mashed potatoes with meat.

"Today's the day you and I are going behind the walls."

The food Thomas had been chewing nearly choked him. "Today?"

"You've got something against that?" Minho's tone made it clear he had stepped out of the bed with the wrong foot.

"I'm just surprised. I thought we'd spend one day on preparing me and then the other…"

Minho took a sip from his mug, gaze cast behind Thomas. "Plans have changed."

"Fair enough." He didn't even try to ask for an explanation; Minho's expression told him everything he needed to know. Apparently, what he needed to know was that he couldn't ask any questions to get him closer to the information he wanted to know.

"Eat up. We should get moving soon."

About ten minutes later, the two of them were in the Shack, the place full of strange, pink papers. He still didn't know what was written on them, as Minho forbid him to even glance at those the wrong way. (His explanation was, "Trust me, you're far from being ready to see what's on them." Which, of course, made Thomas incredibly curious, but somehow he found the inner strength in him to resist the temptation of breaking into the room in the middle of the night just to get a look at them. He totally didn't have a plan for it, anyway. And it most certainly wasn't fleshed out to the most minor details. Most importantly, though, it would be absurd to believe he had planned on bringing his plan to life this very night.)

During Thomas' training process, he'd learned there was more to the building than it first seemed. A hidden door stood in the wall farthest from the entrance, hiding away a tiny room in which different clothing and shoes lay. Thomas had been silent the whole way there; something he wasn't very often. A part of him hoped to improve Minho's mood by not bothering him for fifteen minutes. The other part knew it wouldn't work.

The two changed their clothes in the backroom. Thomas' excitement grew with every piece of clothing he put on. He was going outside! He was actually going outside!

Soon enough, they left the building and took off in a jog. "Wait!" Thomas said a mere minute after. He stopped dead in his tracks. "You didn't give me the pill!"

"...the pill?" Minho asked. Judging by his gaze, he seemed to be in a far-away world.

"The pill!" Thomas used his hands to stress the importance of the word. "You know, the one that keeps me from dying out there? That pill?" _The pill without which I can't look at the edge of the Death Circle without wanting to jump down?_ How on Earth had Minho forgotten it?

Minho blinked a few times. "Oh."

"Oh? Is that all you have to say? You nearly sent me to my death right now, and all you have to say is oh?" Thomas couldn't even tell if he was just joking around or genuinely upset.

"Yes." Minho still wore the look of somebody trying to either remember something or figure something out as he searched his uniform to find, presumably, a pill. "Here." Minho threw a small object Thomas' way.

Thomas extended his right hand to catch it. And indeed, when he opened his palm, a packaged pill looked right back at him. After a few swift moves, he swallowed the it. The brief taste he got was surprisingly sweet. Almost like glucose.

The rest of the tiny trip passed without any disturbances. Before Thomas knew it, they ran straight through the opening of the East Wall. His hungry gaze took in everything around him, cementing the moment into his memory.

The cracked walls were as high as five-story buildings; thick ivy covered a considerable amount of them, giving the walls a greenish look. The ground on which they ran was made of giant blocks of stone, exactly like in the Glade. It was somewhat odd to see such a familiar thing in a place like this. The more he examined the walls, the more he realised his first assessment of the place had been wrong. It wasn't just ivy that covered the walls; there were a lot of different plants hidden under it. Some of them had small, red blossoms, others had purple.

The path soon split in two, and Minho turned to the left. _The Death Circle shouldn't be far now_. A few paranoid thoughts screamed at Thomas, _what if Minho really did give you a glucose pill, and he wants to kill you?_ Rational reasoning argued that Minho wouldn't have the motive to do that, but the doubt still remained. He was literally trusting his life into Minho's hands here, and it wasn't a surprise it made him nervous.

Right, right, left, right, left, left, straight, left, right. Thomas found it difficult to remember all those twists and turns they took; he hadn't expected the maze part to be so large. He'd understood that the maze went on for only like three or four turns, not this...

"Minho?" Thomas asked after another turn. He disliked that talking messed up his breathing pattern. "I hate to ask this, but are we there yet?"

Minho ignored him completely, leaving Thomas even more confused. He didn't try to ask again.

After six more turns, the two found themselves from a dead end. They'd ran straight into one of those paths that at first seem like they're going somewhere, but then they don't. Had Minho taken a wrong turn? What was going on?

Minho stopped, his back to Thomas, and breathed deeply for a couple of times. Thomas followed suit; he could really use a breather. Minho took a few steps during which he angled his body towards Thomas.

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "Why are we here? Did we get lost? What's going on?" A faint sting in his lungs forced him to furrow his brows. _Don't breathe in through your mouth, slinthead._

Minho's eyes flickered behind Thomas for a moment, then he brought his gaze back to him. "Okay, listen. I've a few things to say-"

"Wait," Thomas interrupted, "you're not gonna profess your love for me, are you?" His eyes widened as he said that. He hoped to ease the serious and somewhat awkward atmosphere.

"First of all, I'd rather eat klunk than do that. Second of all, if this is your way of asking permission for doing the same exact thing for me, permission not granted. I don't swing that way," Minho said with a prominent smirk on his face. "I appreciate the thought, though." He didn't let Thomas clarify that in fact, he had not planned on doing that. "But no, really, there's something important you and I need to discuss."

"Is somebody else going to profess their love for me?" Thomas asked, looking around. He was buying time; he knew that. A lone butterfly in his stomach tried to break out, wanted to warn him from what was coming, not realising its actions spoke loud enough for Thomas to feel something was wrong.

"You wish. Listen. How should I say this..."

"How about you-"

"The Death Circle isn't real."

Silence. Uttermost silence. "What?"

Minho just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

"The Death Circle... isn't real." The words tasted sour on Thomas' tongue. Considering the expression Minho wore and Thomas' general feeling about the moment, Minho couldn't have been lying. Couldn't have. "You're joking, right? Ha-ha. You got me."

Minho made eye-contact. "I'm not."

The butterfly shrank in size, multiplied by a hundred, and infested Thomas' intestines. Not a particularly good feeling. "Why?"

Minho's eyebrows rose. "Why what?"

"Why is it not real? Why did you- _why did you all lie?_ Why make it up? Why convince everyone it's real? Why?" It had been a long time since Thomas looked that green.

"Honestly? I don't know. I have no shuck idea. I've asked Galileo and Newt, but they refuse to answer each time. And nobody else knows, either."

"I don't believe you; there's no way you don't know. You're the Keeper of the Runners. You of all people should know exactly why you lie about the Death Circle every day. Wait. Wait. Hold up. What the shuck do you do, then? You sure as hell aren't running circles. You know, since circles are lies."

Minho rolled his eyes. "The hundreds of different walls we saw as we came here? Yeah, they kind of form a Maze. A Maze with capital 'm'. This goes on for kilometers upon kilometers."

Thomas nodded despite barely understanding what was being said. His thoughts were a mess. This information changed everything. In his mind, he had had the perfect understanding of how the things were supposed to be, and now Minho came in and told him his most fundamental knowledge of the job was a lie. "So... you don't run circles all day?" Dumb. So shuck dumb. Of course they weren't; that's what Minho just said. Why was he having such hard time processing it? Why couldn't he wrap his mind around it? He felt like something was wrong with his brain.

"No. We do run, but not in circles. We map out the Maze," Minho explained, walking towards the nearest wall to not have plants on it. Once there, he leaned against it, crossed his arms. "We have some devices for that; I'm gonna show you those later."

"Map out the Maze...? As in, make maps? The papers in the Shack, they're maps, aren't they?"

"They are. We've been doing them for years now. Haven't found a way out as of yet. The thing is, the Maze is huge. We can't explore all of it because we have to get back before the Walls close. And we can't stay out here overnight. While the Death Circle isn't real, the Grievers most certainly are, and there's no way we're dealing with those."

"So you've found nothing? In all those years?"

"No. The Maze is seemingly endless. And none of us is suicidal enough to risk going too far and not making it back in time."

Thomas took a moment before asking, "Why did we have to come out here? Why couldn't you have told me all this back in the Glade?"

Something flashed in Minho's eyes. "You can't tell anyone what you just heard."

"...okay? But why-"

"You don't understand. You can't tell anyone. Not a soul. Ever. You can't give them hints, clues, anything. You can't think, _oh I can trust him; I know he's trustworthy_. No matter the case, you can't tell anyone."

"Yeah, I got that."

Minho's eyebrows knitted together as he shook his head. "You're not listening to me. You want to say that you're okay with nobody else knowing the Death Circle is a lie? That we've lied to them all this time?"

Thomas almost nodded before he finally understood. "Wait. No." Minho seemed somewhat relieved he managed to get his point across. Thomas continued, "I don't think we should keep this as a secret."

"While I don't know why Newt and Galileo enforced this rule, I know overstepping it would bring consequences. The Gladers wouldn't trust us anymore. They'd probably do something incredibly stupid, like going into the Maze themselves or banishing us for keeping this from them."

Thomas didn't agree. "They might be disappointed at first, yes, and might try to do something, but I don't think they'd go to those extremes. If we'd explain to them why-"

"But we don't know why! That's the whole point!"

"Then we ask Newt and Galileo again and again until they tell us. It must be the best shuck reason in the universe, so I'm sure the others will understand. Right?"

"They won't tell us! They won't! I've tried and tried and tried, but it's just not possible. I would go even as far as to say they would rather let themselves be banished than tell us that."

Thomas paced back and forth. "I highly doubt that. You have no idea how powerful humans' instinct to live is. But we can't exactly threaten them with banishment either... God, what am I even talking about. No matter the reasons, we can't just hide all this from the others! It's so... At first they believed there was the Death Circle, which had no way out. Now they would believe there was a Maze with no way out. There's no-"

"There's all the difference in the world. It would give them hope. _Hope_ , Thomas. For those who gave it up months and even years ago, that is a huge change. They would go into the Maze and lose their lives trying to find a way out. We can't do this."

Thomas raked his fingers through his hair. "But it's not fair! We can't play Gods and decide what they must and mustn't know. It's their right! They are perfectly capable of thinking for themselves. Just like you and I."

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, we can't do that. They would lose their minds, don't you get that? I'm not saying all of them would, but I know for a fact at least one-third would. One-third! Do you know how many people that is?"

"We could explain to them that going out there equals death!"

"That wouldn't hold back a person who has hope."

"They're their own people. If they want to, they should have the opportunity to go and explore. We're not their superiors! It's not our call to make."

"It is when the call has already been made a long time ago and undoing it would bring horrible consequences."

Thomas gave Minho a look. "This isn't okay."

"I know."

"We should fix this."

"I know."

* * *

A.N. An update! Yay! Should there be any errors in formatting, grammar, or anything like that, I blame the fact that I don't have access to my own computer, and the computer that I'm currently using feels… wrong. But anyway. I know that this whole 'The Death Circle isn't real' thing doesn't mean much to you, as you obviously know how the things are in reality. However, for Thomas, this changes so much. He went into the job thinking that he doesn't have to do anything but run circles all day, but now it turns out that he's supposed to explore this large maze. Giant mazes are creepy as all hell. I wish you all a great day!


	13. Chapter 13

"Take me back to the Glade." Thomas' brain hurt. All he wanted was a little rest and a lot of time to think things over.

An unfamiliar expression took over Minho's features. "I don't... I can't do that."

"What do you mean you can't? Are we lost?"

"No." He pushed himself away from the wall. "I mean I can't take you back. You don't... you don't understand the importance of this secret. You won't be able to keep your holes shut." Minho closed his eyes for a moment, as if embracing himself for what was to come. "You asked why we came all the way out here, why I couldn't explain all this to you in the Glade. Well, the answer is that it's a safety measure. We can't let you come back if you aren't on the same side as us."

Thomas shook his head, disbelief swimming in his eyes. "You brought me here to banish me?"

"No. I brought you here in case the need for banishment should rise. As I said, it's a safety measure." Minho's whole body language expressed discomfort: he had crossed his arms, his foot tapped quietly against the ground, and he couldn't keep eye contact for longer than a few seconds at a time. He really didn't want to do this, but it seemed like he had little choice.

"I can't believe this." Thomas subconsciously took a step back, away from Minho. "You can't be serious. _Need for banishment?_ There's never a _need_ for banishment."

Minho pressed his lips into a thin line. "Remember Lahey? He would've killed the entire Glade if we wouldn't have banished him. So yes, there sometimes is need."

"I'm nothing like Lahey! I'm not stung; I'm not going crazy. I don't—this is so shuck wrong, everything you just said." Thomas took another step back, although this time willingly. He knew if he'd be closer to Minho, there was no way he wasn't going to give him his strongest punch. A tinge of panic brought blood rushing to his neck. He had to talk some sense into Minho.

"What, do you really think I don't know that you're going to spill the beans to the first Glader willing to listen? And if you do, dozens of shanks are gonna get themselves killed. So if we have to choose between the death one or the death of many, which do you think we'd pick?"

Thomas could barely think straight. "You can't leave me here; I'll just follow you back."

"I think you and I both know who's stronger."

"I think I'll take my chances."

"Listen, even if you were stronger than me, which you're not, I've got backup. I didn't come here alone."

Thomas' gaze darted around the place, tried to notice any kind of suspicious movement around the corners. It wasn't likely he could spend a night out in the Maze all alone and survive. "I don't—I won't tell them. Come on, don't be like this. I swear to God, I won't tell anyone about this."

"You're just saying that to get yourself out of this situation. Give it a few days, you'll begin to think differently." Minho's voice was doubtful. It gave Thomas hope.

"I won't. I swear. I won't tell a soul a thing I know."

Minho eyed Thomas up and down. "There are going to be consequences if you break your promise."

An incredible weight got lifted from Thomas' shoulders. It's strange how one single sentence can do that.

.oOo.

Thomas had trouble sleeping that night. He kept imagining what would've happened if he'd said the wrong thing and Minho would have... It was such a close call.

Newt passed by Thomas at about three or four a.m.. They didn't exchange a single word although Thomas stared openly at the other boy the entire time. Newt had been one of those shanks who had come up with the idea of banishing Runners who disagreed with the Act of Secrecy; Minho had explained it on the way back. Thomas couldn't look Newt the same way he had before.

The faintest shade of red appeared in the night sky, marking Thomas' wake. Not a single thought formed in his mind the whole time he went through his morning routine. He felt numb. Was it normal? He didn't know, but he figured it couldn't have been too uncommon among people who had just barely escaped their demise.

 _I nearly faced death because a group of teenagers thought it would be_ acceptable _, despite my not doing anything wrong. Aren't people allowed to have opinions anymore?_ Minho greeted him when he entered the Shack; Thomas stayed quiet. The others were there as well, minding their own business. A few, the Mappers, sat behind small, wooden tables, a pile of pink papers under their nose. Minho had briefly explained what it is that the Mappers do when the two of them were walking back. ("The devices I told you about, yeah? Well, they come in pairs. The one that you'll be getting is a tiny little bracelet. You can talk into it as you run, telling the person who's back here, making the map and listening to your frequency, the directions you've taken. Then they'll draw it up. It's important you give them the right directions, otherwise you won't find your way back.)

Once Thomas got his running clothes on, he stepped out of the changing room and asked Saph for his bracelet. Saph himself was a nice lad, but the death of Lahey had taken quite a toll on him. The two had been working together for almost a year. It was difficult to imagine what Saph must've felt like when he was told he was getting a new partner right after his previous one had died. So Thomas understood he'd have to give him some time. Having retrieved the bracelet, he went and stood in a corner and examined the tiny thing. It looked like any other piece of jewellery, which made it that much more fascinating. Different variations of purple appeared on it, somewhat faded. Thomas placed it around his left hand, and the ends clasped together by themselves.

"It's time for a quick warm-up! Come on now, everybody out!" Minho shouted, clapping his hands twice.

The room emptied out fast, everyone grabbing some food from the table on their way out. The Mappers, of course, stayed behind. Thomas was the last one to leave. As he passed by Minho in the doorway, Minho opened his mouth to say something to him, but Thomas quickened his pace before any actual words could form.

The lot of them formed a large circle in front of the Shack. Once they were in place, they broke out in a jog. They moved slowly, the jog's only goal to get the blood pumping to their muscles before they started dynamic stretching.

Five minutes later, they stopped, and everybody fell into their warm-up routine. Thomas felt a bit lost, but he gathered himself in moments and mimicked some of the others' movements. Eventually he got into the rhythm of things and did some dynamic stretches of his own. This went on for no more than five minutes.

"Make mommy proud, boys!" Minho said in a sappy voice when they were done with the warm-up. "And don't be late to dinner!"

The Runners held serious faces, not a hint of amusement apparent in their expressions. "Yes, mom, sir!" they all answered at once. In the distance, loud, metallic sound indicated the opening of the Gates. Before anything else could happen, they ran.

Thomas had trouble finding the correct way to feel about this. It was ridiculous, dumb, out of place, unexpected, and strange all at once. He settled with shaking his head and following suit. The group of them, eight in total, split up two by two. Thomas had been assigned to the East, and while nobody had said it out loud, it was obvious he'd taken over Lahey's route. He ran to the East Gate alongside Sam, a quiet shank with hair long enough to reach his behind when not tied up to a bun. The two entered the Maze just when the sun's rays made their first peak over the high walls, coating everything in red light. Soon enough, the road split in two. Sam nodded to Thomas and turned to the right; Thomas answered by nodding his head as well and turning to the left.

The Maze looked the slightest bit different than it had the previous day. The reason wasn't that he'd entered from the East, not the West, but something else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Ivy still grew on the walls among other plants, the road was still made of giant blocks of stone, and the sky was still upwards.

The bracelet squeezed his left wrist. Thomas looked down at it in surprise. "Thomas? Are you there?" Saph's voice asked.

"Damn, I forgot to say that I took a left-turn, didn't I?" Thomas hadn't actually known that Saph could communicate with him as well as he could with Saph.

"You're already there? Oh. Okay. Give me a second." The bracelet loosened its hold.

A tiny bird sat in a crack of the wall, observing Thomas. For some reason, it made him uncomfortable, and he was glad when he got past it.

Three seconds before Saph spoke, the bracelet tightened its hold again. "I'm back. Have you taken any other turns?"

"Nope." It was probably smart to talk in short sentences, considering how the words wanted to mess up his breathing pattern.

"Alright. Anyway. Today's your first day as a Runner! How awesome is that?" Saph sounded genuinely happy for him.

Thomas considered his answer. "It's very different from what I expected."

"Obviously. It's so much cooler, no? Get back to me when you take another turn."

The Maze turned out to be breathtakingly beautiful, as surprising as it was. As the day went on, the shadows turned the other way, ever so slow in their movement. The farther Thomas went, the more different plants grew on the walls. At one point, ivy got replaced with some other plant, a darker shade of blue in colour than ivy had been.

The bracelet warned him of an upcoming chat with Saph. "Hey, Thomas? It's time to head back."

"Already? Are you sure?"

"Positive. The others should turn around and come back now as well."

A bird. A small bird flew past Thomas and landed on a pink blossom six meters away. Was it the same one he'd seen before? It must've been; he hadn't noticed any other creatures the whole time he'd run. When Thomas reached the bird, it flew another six meters. "Left," Thomas said. He and Saph had fallen into the routine of him saying only the direction he took, as it was short and to the point.

"Head back."

The bird's head twitched to the right side, asking Thomas to follow. Perhaps it really had something to show him? Sure, normally cats or dogs were the ones to guide, but why not birds? Thomas wanted to find out more. "Right."

"Right as in you took a right turn or right as in you're coming back?"

"Took a turn."

"You're being unreasonable," Saph said, frustration in his voice. "Everybody else has already turned around. You won't make it back in time if you—"

"Left." Just as he said it, he discovered the reason the bird had wanted him to follow: a golden coin. It was large, about the size of his hand. Surprisingly light, though.

"Hey, Saph, has anyone ever found stuff from the Maze?"

"No, why?"

"I think I just found a gold coin." Thomas took his backpack off, undid its zipper, and put the coin inside. "I'm taking it with me."

There was silence on Saph's end. "A coin? Okay. Does it mean you're turning back now?"

"Yes."

.oOo.

"I don't think it's in any way special, apart from its size, that is," Newt said, passing it on to Galileo.

Galileo tried to break it, scratch it, and even bite it without any luck. "Yeah, seems pretty ordinary to me." He gave it to Minho who crinkled his nose.

Thomas took a large gulp of water from his bottle. "So you've never found anything from the Maze before?"

Newt shook his head. "No, never."

"Something's fishy here," Arsy said, his voice high and unpleasant. "Didn't Saph say you refused to turn back when he said you should? And then a few minutes later you found the coin. It's almost as if you had known it was there."

Thomas took his time placing the bottle onto the table. However, before he could answer, Newt said, "That's absurd. How could've he possibly known that?"

Arsy shrugged. "Makes you think, doesn't it? Maybe he knows more than he's letting on."

"As if. The guy doesn't remember his own shuck name; how could he know anything even remotely important?"

"How do you know he doesn't remember? Sure, he might've told us so, but you know what? People lie."

"Why would he lie? What would the motive be?" Newt asked, doubting.

Their argument had caught the attention of the whole room.

"How am I supposed to know? Why don't we ask him?"

Both Newt and Arsy glanced at Thomas' direction.

"This is ridiculous," Thomas said. He focused on Arsy as he talked. "There's no way I can prove my statement, and you know it, so it's a bit unfair, don't you think?"

"I—"

Galileo interrupted. "Enough. Thomas, why did you go on when Saph told you to turn back?"

Thomas didn't move his gaze from Arsy. "There was a bird. It showed me the way, and I decided to check it out if it really wanted to guide me somewhere. Turned out it did."

"A bird?" Newt questioned. "What bird? Birds don't go that far into the Maze."

Thomas, at the risk of otherwise leaving a childish impression of himself, met Newt's gaze. There was only so so much he could do to avoid him. "That one did."

"Are you sure it was a bird?"

Thomas would've smirked, had he not been mad at... basically everyone and everything. Minho for threatening to banish him, Newt and Galileo because of forcing Minho to threaten to banish him, the other Runners for not doing anything about it, the rest of the Gladers because he couldn't tell them anything... To be fair, the last counted as him being mad at, again, Galileo and Newt. "Am I sure—do you think I wouldn't recognise a bird? Especially if it's like a meter from me?" His tone came out a bit harsher than he'd intended it to. No matter.

"What he was trying to say," Galileo said, giving a pointed look to Newt, "is that couldn't it have been a machine designed to look like a bird?"

Thomas furrowed his brows. "That's an oddly specific question."

"We might have had to deal with animal-looking machines in the past," Galileo answered vaguely. The Runners exchanged looks and a few whispers.

"I don't think it was a machine. It could fly, and it moved smoothly. If there was anything wrong with it, I didn't notice."

"Fair enough. If you ever see it again, try to catch it, see if it has a pulse." Galileo raised his voice. "That's all for today. You may go to the dinner now."

The room emptied out one by one, but some seemed reluctant to leave. Thomas, who had arrived later than the others, proceeded to go to the changing room. He was eager to get rid of the sweaty, smelling clothes. Once done with that, he put the dirty clothes into a canvas bag and took it with him. Normally the Sloppers came by after the Runners had returned to take the clothes away themselves, but since Thomas had been late, he'd missed out on that.

Newt waited for him near the exit. What an unpleasant surprise.

"I'm sorry," Newt said the first thing. "I know yesterday was pretty rough for you."

"You can say that again."

Newt opened the door for Thomas, and Thomas stepped out. "It's kind of my fault."

While it was nice of Newt to do that, Thomas found it unnecessary. "It kind of is, yeah."

Birds chirped atop the trees, and the distant chatter danced around in the wind. The sun couldn't be seen—the rest of the forest blocked the view—but it should've been barely above the walls at this point. Thomas slowed his pace to a stop when he realised Newt hadn't followed him.

Newt locked the door. A _click!_ echoed seconds later, the padlock firm in its place. "I asked Minho for the key and told him I'd lock the door myself," he explained once he caught up. "I wanted to talk to you."

"What's there to talk about?" Thomas asked, setting up the pace again.

"Plenty. For example, have you talked to Chuck recently?"

Thomas resisted the urge to give Newt a look. "Yeah, sure, I talk to him every day."

Newt pressed his lips into a thin line. "No need to be so sarcastic." When Thomas didn't say anything, he continued. "He's been a little off lately. Moodier than usual, keeps more to himself. I figured maybe you'd know what's going on."

"Dude, I barely know him. I don't understand why you're asking me about this. "

Newt seemed determined to continue the conversation Thomas was somewhat unwilling to have. "What do you think about the Act of Secrecy?"

So that's why he wanted to talk; he wanted to find out if he had any chance of banishing him. "I think it's unreasonable and dumb, but since I'm apparently not allowed to think that way, I'm going to say it's one of the best things you guys have come up with during the three years you've been here. Honestly, brilliant work."

Newt gave Thomas an odd look. "Three years?"

"Two. Whatever."

"No, it's not. Why did you say three?" Newt pressed on.

Thomas couldn't decide between wanting to raise his eyebrows and wanting to knit them together. "Slip of tongue; I don't know. Why's it so important?"

If there ever was an expression for being incredibly suspicious of someone, that's what Newt wore right that moment. "Are you sure you don't remember anything?

"You, too? Really?" The two exited the forest. Faint smell of pancakes lingered in the air, reminding Thomas just how hungry he was.

Newt didn't give up. "Do I look familiar to you?"

For the first time, Thomas turned to actually look at him. "What do you mean f...? Oh. No? Should you? Do I look familiar to you?"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm shuck sure! Would you mind telling me what's going on now?" Thomas was getting impatient. Newt knew something.

The blond ignored him. "Have any of your memories come back to you? Anything at all?"

"No! Why are you questioning me?" When Newt looked like he was about to ask another question, Thomas took a large step forward and turned around, blocking Newt's way. "What are you not telling me?"

Newt nearly bumped into him, surprised by his actions. "I wanted to know if what Arsy said earlier had any grounds."

"And?"

"It did." Newt wanted to walk away, but Thomas cut his way off once again. Newt took a breath. "You're hiding something."

Thomas was two seconds away of morphing into a giant question mark. "And you're not telling me absolutely anything I want to know! God, did you take a class called 'Ten tips to become the most evasive piece of klunk'? Because it sure looks like it."

Newt hadn't expected such an answer. A glint appeared in his eyes as fast as it left. "I don't think I can tell you those things."

"Can't tell me? For what shuck reason?"

Newt's mouth twitched. "I can't tell you that, either."

Thomas battled with the urge to pull his own hair out and to slap Newt. He opened and closed his mouth multiple times before turning his back to him and continuing his walk to the Washing Rooms.

"Hey," Newt said, cathching up, "I'm sorry, okay? Trust me when I say this, but I just can't tell you—"

"Yeah, okay. It's fine. I get it. Who knows, maybe I am lying about not remembering anything, right?"

Newt gave a frustrated sigh. "It's complicated. It really is."

"What else is new."

"You're making this really difficult."

Thomas couldn't believe his ears. "I'm making this difficult? You're the one who's keeping secrets, not me."

Newt paused for a moment, thinking of a response. "We're making this out to be a much bigger deal than it actually is." He looked as if he wanted to add something but thought better of it. "Okay. So. What I wanted to talk to you about is that since you're a Runner now, you can get your own house. If you want. What do you think?"

"I think I'm good." _I like seeing the stars in the night's sky and how it changes colour ever so slowly once the morning is near._

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Soon after, they parted ways, Thomas going to drop off his dirty clothes, and Newt going straight to eat. Once Thomas himself got around to eating, the others had already left. He took a seat at his table, all alone. However, he didn't mind the solitude. In fact, he was grateful for it.

The pasta on his plate shrunk in size for more than twenty minutes before coming to an end. He stood up, gathered his tray, but before he could take even one step, Don came by.

"The Party Zone. Ten minutes," Don whispered, his pace not once slowing down. His whispers were so quiet and laced with a thick accent, Thomas doubted he'd really heard him correctly.

 _Why would he want to meet me? I've never even talked to him._ Those thoughts raced through Thomas' head as he brought his dishes to the Kitch. _Does he want to talk to me about_ _Chuck?_

Thomas neared the Party Zone. The sky had gone darker but not by much. A shadow leaned against the giant oak tree, aware of Thomas' arrival.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" Thomas asked. He stood before Don, his arms crossed.

"Did anyone follow you?" Don asked in return, glancing over Thomas' shoulder.

Thomas couldn't help but look back himself. "No? Why should? What's going on?"

Don reached out his hands and tugged Thomas closer until the two of them were both behind the tree, away from anyone's sight. "I know there's a Maze out there, Thomas, and I need you to help me."

Now, that was a sentence he hadn't expected to hear. He had trouble figuring out how he should react. "Excuse me?"

Don's look was fierce. "You heard me. I overheard your chat with Newt, and I know your stance on this. You don't have to hide."

Confusion. How did Don know? Should Thomas deny the whole thing? Should he ask further questions? It'd been a while since he'd last been this indecisive about something. "I... uh... I'm not sure I can—"

One of Don's hands rised up to push his dark hair away from his face. Thomas thought he was going to punch him. "Listen. I've known about the Maze being a thing and the Act of Secrecy for a long time now. I really did mean it when I said you don't have to hide it from me." He bit the inside of his cheek. "Okay, let me give you a little background info first. Have you heard of the Rebellion?"

It took Thomas a moment to realise Don had asked a question. The Rebellion? A memory danced around the edges of his consciousness. A young boy, cornered by Galileo. Galileo throwing accusations at him, and the boy denying everything _. "What shuck Maze? What gatherings?"_ He'd been a part of the Rebellion, or that's what seemed most likely. "I might've."

Don nodded. "There's quite a few of us. We've been doing—uh, what's the word I'm looking for— _pranks?_ for some time now to alert the Highs of our existence. To make them cautious. And we need your help."

"What for? What could I do?" Thomas asked before his brain caught up.

"We need a Runner. Somebody who's actually been to the Maze. Nobody would believe us if we'd come out and tell the rest of the Gladers how things are. We'd get banished, all of us. But you... You've been there. They'd believe you."

Thomas needed a second to breathe. "This is—I'm not—I can't."

"Why? Give me one good reason."

"It's... it's not my choice to make."

"And it is Newt's and Galileo's? What makes them better than us? Why are their opinions more important than ours?"

"Maybe they have good reasons; you wouldn't know."

Don raised his eyebrows. "Are you really defending them right now? You sure weren't back in the forest."

 _What am I doing?_ "I don't know; I haven't had the time to think it over."

"Think fast, then. I'm not asking you again."

Thomas' gaze had trouble finding one specific place to focus on. "Do you have a plan?"

"Yes."

"I don't—"

Both Don and Thomas jumped when they heard a third voice. "And what, exactly, are you two talking about?" Galileo stepped into their field of vision, his eyebrows knitted together.

Thomas shared looks with Don. "We..."

"Remember that plan I told you about?" Don asked Galileo. "Well, I can't have an acting group if there are no actors. So, I asked him if he wanted to join."

Galileo nodded. "That so? Why did you have to ask him all the way out here, then? Couldn't you have done that back in the Middle?"

Don raised his chin. "There might have been other things I wanted to talk to him about as well."

"Such as?"

"They're... kind of personal."

Thomas wasn't sure what kind of an expression he had to wear, so he settled for the truthful one: confusion and fear.

Galileo's eyes narrowed. "Personal? You?"

"Yes. Is there a problem with that?" Don's tone didn't give anything away.

"Indeed is. SInce when do you have personal things to discuss with Thomas over here?"

Don sent a quick look at Thomas. "Okay, fine. You want to know so damn much? I like him. Ever since his trial day in the Kitch, I've liked him. I've seen him around since then, but I've never had the chance to talk to him. So, today, I decided to man up and tell him. And look at how that worked out." Don was a brilliant actor. Thomas almost believed his story, despite knowing it was far from the truth.

Tiny spots of red tinted Galileo's neck, eventually reaching his face. "I don't believe you." Galileo grabbed Don's hands and pulled him along. "Eight days in the Slammer, starting now. Let's go."

Don winked at Thomas when Galileo wasn't looking. _I'll find you in_ _two weeks' time_ , he mouthed.


	14. Chapter 14

"Saph?" Thomas whispered into his bracelet. "The bird is back."

As with every other day, the slightly too orange of a sun terrorised the Glade from up above. Its colourful effects from the morning were all gone by now, leaving the sky glow its usual shade of blue. The soft breeze playing on Thomas' cheeks felt warmer than it had on previous days, but perhaps Thomas' mind couldn't accept the fact that all days were the same around there.

"Really? Didn't you see it, like, at the very end of your run yesterday?"

Thomas' eyes ached when they realised they weren't going to do a majestic roll. As much as it bothered him not to do so, he had to concentrate on where his feet hit the ground. The stone underneath him had turned rather uneven, and he wasn't willing to take his chances on spraining his ankle. "Dude, it's a bird. Do you think birds have time schedules?"

A snort could be heard from the other side of the connection. "Good point."

The bird used the same strategy as the day before—it flew for about ten meters, waited for Thomas to catch up, and then flew another ten or so meters. Thomas thought it best to follow the bird; who knew, perhaps it would lead to another finding.

He let his mind go silent after a while. His actions became routine, as if on auto-pilot. He had gone far enough for the vegetation to change, and yet there was no sign of anything interesting around, anything out of the ordinary. The bird itself didn't seem to tire a bit in the hours it had to constantly fly, but Thomas didn't know if it was a normal occurrence.

"Thomas? You should head back soon," Saph's voice told him. He sounded tired, almost like it was him who had been running all this time. In all likelihood, he was probably just bored.

"Okay," Thomas answered as he breathed out. _But n_ _ot before I find whatever it is that this bird wants me to find._ His determination began to fade after five minutes. Like, it was just a bird. What were the chances it'd lead him to another finding? Did it even know where it was going? Do birds really have good orientation skills?

Saph came in contact once again. "I've let you go on for far too long now. You're ten minutes off your schedule."

It didn't faze him. "I made it back with time to spare before."

"That doesn't mean you should keep pushing your luck!"

Thomas knew he would make it back if he'd go on for maximum thirty more minutes, which was why Saph's words didn't have much of an impact. "Maybe."

"You're impossible," Saph huffed, but even he didn't sound too worried about Thomas' situation.

"Thanks. Left."

Tiny alarm bells went off in Thomas' head when twenty more minutes passed. He might die following this bird, and for what? So he could find another useless coin? Perhaps this bird wasn't even going anywhere?

"Thomas." Saph's voice sounded more serious now. "It's been thirty minutes. You have to turn around!"

Thomas' rational and curious side were at war with each other, not making Thomas' choice in the matter any easier. "The bird is still going," he finally uttered.

"The bird can fly over walls when coming back, you can't!"

Thomas took the next turn. His gaze caught a glimpse of something shiny on the ground. "Found them," Thomas reported, approaching them. "Two coins." He crouched and picked them up. "Same as yesterday." By the looks of it, anyway. Same size, same weight, same appearance. "I'm coming back."

.oOo.

The door opened with a creak. An exhausted Thomas stumbled in, his face a shade of overgrown strawberry. Shadows of boys filled the room, Thomas' sight too hazy to understand the specifics. He pulled the backpack off him with jerky movements and threw it towards a particularly shadowy area, not even caring whether the boys were able to catch it or not. Never again would he run at such a fast pace for this long, no matter what the bird wanted him to do. He'd come back mere ten minutes before the walls had closed shut. Ten. Shuck. Minutes. If he would've taken a slightly longer break at one point, he wouldn't have been standing there right now. Reckless as the decision was to follow the bird, Thomas couldn't risk his life for mere silver coins.

He fell through the back door, his hands doing their best to grab onto walls and maintain balance. The rapid breaths exiting his mouth resembled evaporated waves of lava, perhaps a tiny bit cooler than their liquid form. Grey-ish dots swum in the air, curiously watching Thomas' every move.

The change of clothes passed by as a blur. During the process, more and more dots vanished, presumably playing hide-and-seek with Thomas. Unfortunately for them, Thomas had no interest in finding them again. He pushed the door open, this time with a clearer head and a stronger stance.

A circle had formed around one of the tables. By standing on his toes, Thomas recognised a few people in the very center: Galileo and Newt. Of course. They were discussing something with Minho, some voices from the crowd joining them every once in a while. Fair enough. Since it seemed they were doing fine on their own, Thomas sneaked to the front door. As he reached his hand out to pull it open...

"Where do you think you're going?" Galileo's voice boomed.

Thomas freezed, then turned to face him. The mass of people had parted so Thomas had a straight pathway to the center. "Out."

"You haven't even given us the details of what happened."

"You know as well as I that Saph can tell you absolutely everything."

Galileo crossed his arms. "I want to hear it from you."

"Listen. Babe. I'm tired. I'm so shuck tired. I'm barely standing on my own two feet. I'm almost seeing dancing caterpillars in front of me." There was no filter between his brain and his mouth; he didn't have the energy for it. He barely even understood what he was saying. "Thanks for your understanding." With that, Thomas opened the front door and left.

Nobody followed him.

.oOo.

"I don't get," Saph said the next day, his voice sounding a bit metallic, "why Galileo's giving you special treatment."

Thomas' eyes narrowed. "What do you mean special treatment?"

"Like... He gave you the Runner position. He didn't give you half the punishments everyone else would've gotten if they were you. He let you leave yesterday and didn't stop you. This isn't like him."

"Acting like a human isn't like him?"

"Exactly."

Thomas considered this. He didn't know Galileo well enough to draw any conclusions. "Lucky me. Right turn."

"It's still weird, though." A brief silence ensued. "Now that I think about it, the only other person he acts so approvingly of is Newt."

This was news. "Newt?"

"Yeah. Do you... do you think he remembers you? From Before?"

"Why would he?"

"I don't know. Do you have any better explanations?"

"No."

The bird didn't return for quite some time, and at first it felt like it'd given up on its quest to make Thomas find things. However, at the very end of the day, it appeared out of nowhere. Thomas reported this to Saph, and Saph told him to ignore the bird and turn back; he was out of time.

He had made a promise to himself. He had sworn he wouldn't follow the bird the next time he saw it, as it would just bring him to another set of coins. Completely useless. "Okay. Okay," Thomas said into the bracelet, indicating his agreement to the plan. He slowed to a stop. Ridiculous, really, how the Maze looked different when he stood in one place instead of moving around.

The bird then did something normal birds would never do: it flew back to Thomas and rammed into him from behind, forcing him to take two steps forward, towards the direction the bird had wanted him to go. Thomas, surprised and confused, swatted the bird away. Or, rather, would've swatted it away if it wouldn't have been as strong as it was. His hand hurt from the contact. "Saph? The bird, it's attacking me!" Thomas kept taking steps forward, as there was no other way of easing the pain the bird's beak made to his back. Even its feathers seemed to hurt him.

"Attacking you? Why?"

"I think it wants me to go with it."

When Thomas broke out into a jog, the bird went and took back its previous position seven meters farther from Thomas.

"Can't you just, you know, push it away?"

"No. It's a tough bird."

"Thomas. Birds aren't supposed to be described with words such as tough."

Just as the bird flew another seven meters, Thomas did a one-eighty and made a run for it. He wasn't going to die out there. No way.

"I think I—"

The bird rammed into his back, its beak sure to leave a scar on his skin. The force of the impact nearly caused Thomas to fall over. He gathered his strength and punched the bird, momentarily making it back off. Then, it attacked again. Its beak hit the same exact spot as the first time, and the sound of Thomas' skin ripping could nearly be heard. He let out a cry, unable to keep it in. He used his elbows, knuckles, fists, and combinations of the three to fight it off, but the bird stayed on top no matter what he did. A strange glint was in the birds' eyes, one that Thomas couldn't quite understand.

Two minutes were enough for him to understand he wasn't going to win this fight. "Saph? The bird—it's not real. It's a machine. It's stronger than me, and I can't escape it." As he spoke, he fell into the rhythm of running and following the bird. Although it looked exactly like a real bird, it couldn't have been. Saph had been right: real birds weren't as strong.

"Oh my God. You're not going to make it back!"

He could always count on Saph to bring positivity into his life. "You're not helping!"

"I don't know how to help!? What can I possibly do from here?"

"Say encouraging words, for one. Left turn."

Saph took a moment. "I can't. My head's empty."

"Thanks. Love you too."

Thomas hadn't ever been this far into the Maze. The vegetation was once again in the state of changing—large, brownish red blossoms poked their heads out, one by one, their stems the lightest shade of blue. Tiny, yellow plants reared their heads out as well. The walls now had a brownish purple tone to them, so different from the general blue that had dominated the walls before. "Right," Thomas said into his bracelet, keeping Saph up to date with his whereabouts.

Thomas' heart skipped a beat. A thin layer of cold sweat covered his forehead and hands, a thing that hadn't happened to him before. He nearly stumbled. Because there, right before his eyes, lay a person with short, dark hair, and outstretched limbs. Their face couldn't be seen from Thomas' current position, but he was about to fix that problem.

 _Come on, please be alive._ He lowered himself to his knees, sat about ten centimeters away from the person in front of him. His heart pumped even faster than it had before, and his hand trembled when he reached out to measure the pulse. His fingers sank into the person's light, untanned skin. Nothing. Was he searching from the wrong place? Then, _thud! Thud!_

Thomas let out the breath he wasn't aware of holding, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He turned the person's head to face him, without consciously giving himself a specific order to do so, and his eyes widened as he took in the sight. Dark eyeliner, red lips, and white as snow powder caught Thomas' gaze in just that order. Permanent make-up, in a word.

He shook the girl by her left shoulder, wishing she'd wake up. He had no idea what to say, so he didn't say anything; the words seemed to have lost all meaning. The girl's eyes didn't even flutter.

Thomas broke out of his haze when the bracelet tightened its hold against his wrist. "Thomas? Thomas, are you there?" Saph's voice had never before been so concerned.

"I'm... I... uh," Thomas stammered, moving away from the body. "I found someone; she's on the ground—Saph, she's not moving. I—I checked her pulse, and she's alive, but," Thomas raked his fingers through his hair, "what should I do now?"

Saph was so taken aback, he forgot all his concern for Thomas. "You... what? A girl? In the Maze? Are you sure?"

"Saph, she has permanent make-up on. I'm pretty sure." Thomas had had the chance to recollect himself, and his thought process took considerable steps towards returning to normal once again. "Do you—I'm not going to make it back with her, am I?"

The too-long silence told him the answer even before Saph finally muttered a doubtful no.

Thomas paced around, his mind feverishly trying to come up with a solution. "Do you think I can—"

"No. That's not an option. With luck, you'll barely have the time to get back yourself; there's no way you can carry somebody along with you."

"I meant is it possible for me to survive the night in the Maze?"

The answer came quick. "No. No chance."

"There has to be." The statement came out like a question. "I'll find a way."

"Thomas, you can't be seri—"

The bird, whose existence Thomas had managed to completely forget about, made a sudden dash for Thomas. Instinctively, he placed his hands in front of him to protect his face. However, it seemed to be exactly what the bird had wanted: it tore away Thomas' bracelet. Then, it flew away. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.

.oOo.

One, two, three, _pull_. Thomas secured the ivy tight and hesitantly let it go. It held. In the dim light, the girl was nearly invisible thanks to Thomas' quick thinking. He had arranged leaves and large flower blossoms around her, successfully covering most of her body. He could've been more throughout with it, but it would have to do for now.

The ground vibrated three seconds before distant screeching reached Thomas' ears. Goosebumps ran up and down Thomas' arms. The gates to the Glade closed. His chance of survival dropped. Fear set in. He refused to think about any of it, despite being scared out of his mind.

It was strange, really, walking around in the Maze. It felt wrong and yet so calming. He wasn't on duty anymore. He could do whatever he wanted: walk or run, scream or be quiet, dance or hit a wall. There were no rules, and it felt just so... relaxing. The layer of fear around his heart weakened slightly. He could pretend it wasn't there.

In a few places, the grey of the large stone blocks wasn't even visible. The ivy, among other plants, had taken full control. The plants' stems had twirled around each other, making for a strong rope. Despite their ability to carry a light person's weight, such as the girl's, Thomas couldn't climb them—as it turned out, he didn't fit the requirement. It was fine; it would've been too much to ask for anyway.

As he walked, Thomas held his hands in his pockets. The initial joy had faded, as brief as it had been, and slight shivers ran up and down his spine. The fear's hold on his heart had strengthened; its long, shadowy limbs reached all the way to his brain. The sun had set about an hour earlier, and it was inevitable he'd run into a Griever sooner or later now.

He hadn't ventured far from the girl, logic telling him to stay close to her. What point would there be in trying to save her when—even if they did live long enough to see the sunrise—he couldn't find her again? With that in mind, he'd familiarised himself with the surroundings. He estimated the area he now knew was about two square kilometers large, and while it wasn't a lot by any means, it was infinitely better than nothing. At the very least, it gave him a sense of accomplishment, security, even. He knew this place. He could do this.

It all came crashing down when a wall near him moved and closed off the section he was about to step into. _It's the Maze, changing_ , Newt had explained one day when Thomas had asked him about the sounds he'd heard during the night. It changed every night. Thomas knew this; he'd seen its effects every day he spent running. But why, then, had he forgotten all about it?

He hoped the girl wouldn't wake up. There was no way Thomas could explain the situation to her well enough for her to agree to stay up there, much less stay quiet. The mere thought of it made the hairs on his arms rise up.

The sky filled with stars. The crescent moon creeped into the picture as well, taking all the glory to itself and leaving the stars seem insignificant. He wondered how many stars were there, up in the sky. Before long, Thomas couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, and he fell asleep.

The sound of metal coming in contact with stone awoke Thomas. The noise had a softness to it, and it echoed throughout the corridors. Something moved—and fast. Thomas scrambled to his feet, eyes wide, heart pumping erratically. From which direction was the sound coming from? Left, definitely left. Thomas dashed behind a corner and kept on running from there.

It was a good thing his eyes had adjusted to the dark.

After a few turns it became clear this part of the Maze hadn't changed yet. It fit well with Thomas' plans. He looped back to the starting point and then some to get a chance to see the Griever. For reasons beyond his imagining, he was morbidly curious about the creature's appearance. He needed to know how it looked like, needed to know whether Minho's descriptions of it had been accurate.

He stopped before every turn, peeked around the wall carefully. When he did it for the twelfth time, he saw it. The creature resembled an abnormally large animal—dog, perhaps—with dark, mechanical limbs, six of them. The sight made Thomas sick to his stomach.

The creature spun around as if it had sensed Thomas. Its eyes reminded those of insects', which was incredibly unnatural on a dog's face. The mouth was something straight out of a horror movie: a large, awaiting gap with pieces of skin hanging around it. Thomas could swear his heart stopped for three full seconds.

A red glint flashed in the Griever's eyes. It wobbled for the briefest of moments, then sprung to life. Thomas lost a second before realising what was happening. He pushed himself away from the wall with his right hand and skyrocketed away.

The creature was fast. Thomas was faster. He used his hands in sharp turns to maneuver more easily; the rough stone cutting open his palm. He didn't care. Adrenaline helped him to maintain his pace and made sure no trivial things bothered his concentration.

The Griever had an advantage: it was a machine. It didn't get tired. Thomas realised this as he took an umpteenth turn, his breathing ragged and deep. He still couldn't feel any actual pain, so he kept going.

At one point, Thomas lost the Griever. No metallic sounds could be heard scraping against the ground or the walls; it had fallen behind. Thomas collapsed after a few more twists and turns. He was safe. He could've cried from the stress relief, but he was afraid of making any sounds. Instead, he looked up to the sky.

Eventually, his breathing slowed. His heart got back into the right rhythm. His hands trembled. He couldn't stop them.

He awoke to a familiar sound and was up on his feet in less than two seconds. The creature appeared from behind a corner; Thomas could tell by the sheer loudness of the steps. His legs didn't work properly when he ran; his vision shook. He was much slower than he had been before. But this was life or death. He couldn't let himself die just because of a slight shiver in his legs.

Somewhere in the distance, a wall moved. The sound dragged on and on and on. He dashed towards the noise, the creature following tight. _There!_ The wall on the right side inched closer to the one on the left, about eleven meters between them. Ten. Nine. Thomas ran straight into the opening. He couldn't even hear the small voice in the back of his mind telling him he wasn't going to make it. He risked a glance behind to see if the creature was still following him—the noise of the walls moving had blocked all other sounds. The Griever had just entered the narrowing pathway. Thomas' legs hurt; why, he didn't know. It slowed him down. The Griever got closer by the second, as did the walls.

Thomas got out exactly two seconds before the walls would've crushed him. A resounding _thump!_ announced the actual closure. Thomas ran straight into the wall in front of him, unable to stop at the right time. His legs gave out, and he slid down, his back to the Griever. The _dead_ Griever, presumably. He coughed up some warm liquid before passing out.

The dark hadn't faded when he regained consciousness. He wrinkled his nose; the air reeked around him. His heavy eyes told him the source of it was the pool of vomit two centimeters away from his head. Thomas crawled away from there, eager to find some fresh air to breathe. Once he'd found the perfect spot, he leaned his back against the wall; the stems of a couple of plants softened the rough material. His head hurt. His legs hurt. His insides hurt. His thinking process was broken; he wasn't able to form long, coherent thoughts. He hugged his legs close and rested his forehead on his knees.

What was the time? Was it close to morning yet? Were there any other Grievers out there? Was the girl still alive? Was _he_ still alive?

A part of the Griever's body stuck out of the closed walls—its leg, by the looks of it. It jerked up and down violently, as if trying to break itself free from its host but with no success. Terrifying, that's what it was. The moment Thomas saw it move, he made a walk for it and left the area. His pace slower than one of a dying man's, he made no noise and kept his eyes open. No little thing escaped his cautious gaze.

The twists and turns felt familiar, although they couldn't have been. The Maze had changed too much. Nevertheless, he let his gut lead him the way, as he had no better ideas himself.

The dark shadows creeped in the corners, holding secret gatherings and whispering plans of attack. Thomas ignored them the best to his ability.

The sky lit up in a shade of blue just when Thomas found the girl. She hadn't woken up and was still tied up. He had done a better job at hiding her than he'd thought—if he hadn't known exactly where to look, he would've missed her.

He lay down near the wall opposite of the girl. Loud screeches echoed in the distance; either a few walls moved randomly, or the Gates had opened. At this point, he didn't even care.

Shouts surrounded him a blink of an eye later. It was brighter now, much brighter. It hurt his eyes. He couldn't understand the words spoken. He couldn't move.

"Tommy?!"

He didn't recognise the voice.

"...away, you shuck slinthead!" The voice came from much closer now, perhaps fifteen meters away.

A trembling hand shook Thomas before sinking into his skin, looking for a pulse.

Thomas blinked his eyes open, breaking through the trance. "Nice to see you too," he croaked out, his throat drier than it had ever been.

Newt's face was much closer than Thomas had expected. His mouth hung open the tiniest bit, and his eyes widened before narrowing. He didn't even say anything; he just hugged Thomas close.

Instinctively, he hugged Newt back. The sound of Newt's heart pounding echoed loud in his ears. "I'm alive?" Thomas whispered.

"Yes," Newt breathed. "Yes you are."

Thomas squeezed Newt one last time before letting go. "Do you have—"

"Water? Here." Newt backed away from Thomas to grab his bag. Moments later, he held a water bottle out, which Thomas gratefully accepted. His throat felt much better after he'd taken a few sips. Although his joints protested, he forced himself to sit up and lean his back against the wall. "How are you even here?"

Newt was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and large, dark circles decorated the area around his eyes. "It's a," he said, his voice betraying him and breaking, "standard procedure, um, to come looking for the shanks who stayed in the Maze overnight. The ones who weren't banished, I mean." There was a long pause. "I'm just glad you're alive."

Thomas couldn't answer, as shouts from nearby caught his attention. Minho, Arsy, and Clint came into view. Minho's pace slowed when he noticed Thomas, evidently unable to believe his eyes. Clint, however, had the exact opposite reaction and was next to Thomas in a matter of seconds. He fired questions his way, and Thomas' mind switched itself on autopilot.

"The girl!" Thomas' gaze had wondered onto the spot on the wall where he'd tied the girl. How could've he forgotten her? "The girl," he repeated, standing up and ignoring Clint, "she's up there." Thomas pointed his finger to the general direction.

Minho looked at the girl, then Thomas. "Good thinking," he commented.

* * *

A.N. Are you familiar with the feeling of knowing exactly what you want to write but at the same time being unable to actually sit down and _write_? That's what I've been dealing with for a month now. I'm so sorry for the long wait! I'd like to tell you the next chapter's going to be up sooner, but I'm not one to make promises I might not be able to keep. I'll do my best, though! Thank you all for sticking with this story for so long and giving me motivation to write. I'm probably going to make a third draft of this once I finish, as it isn't nearly as high of a quality as I want it to be. We'll see!


	15. Chapter 15

The leaves on trees shared their thoughts and discoveries with each other in the form of whispers. Whenever the leaves, nosy little things, had new information to share, they whisper-shouted it to their neighbours and they in turn their neighbours, until finally the message reached the farthest corners of the forest. Thomas experienced it firsthand: the nature around him roared to life when he, carefully following the tiny road, entered the Deadheads.

His hands held each other tight, trying to preserve the last remaining warmth Thomas had. The forest offered him cover from the wind, but it wasn't enough for him to warm up. He'd never had this problem before, probably because when he'd slept outside, his body had gotten used to the outside temperatures during the night. The feeling of cold in the morning was the only downside to sleeping in the Med-room, it seemed. Alas, it didn't matter. He wasn't that cold anyway. Besides, the sun was supposed to rise soon, and it would definitely bring in a wave of warmth.

Lanterns illuminated the road's most shadowed areas. Taking into account how seldom the road was used, Thomas had already made peace with the idea of having to make his way through in complete absence of light. He wanted to get away from the Gladers, the buildings, everything the Glade stood for, so he suffered through the chilly air, as it was such a small price to pay for his wishes. Although he didn't want to think about the conversation he'd had to have last night, he couldn't get the words out of his head. _Three days of rest, minimum. You're not going back out there, not after you nearly died trying to get out. Frankly, I'm surprised you're even considering it_ , Newt had said. Both Jeff and Minho had agreed whole-heartedly. Newt's tone had indicated they'd discussed this beforehand, as the words exiting his mouth sounded well-rehearsed. Thomas couldn't argue with all three of them at once, so he bit his tongue and nodded before he could make things worse by telling his thoughts of the subject out loud.

What was he supposed to do for three days? Thomas would've understood the reasoning behind it if he'd actually been injured, unable to leave his bed. Of course, it by far wasn't the case for him. He was fine. He felt fine. Nightmares didn't affect his ability to run or think straight.

There was also a second reason as to why he felt the need to visit the Deadheads. At some point in the night when he'd yet again woken up covered in cold sweat, he'd had a realisation. He saved the girl's life. The girl was alive, breathing, because of him. Thomas had managed to save both the girl and himself from a certain death.

Some shanks weren't as lucky.

Thomas stepped his foot into the clearing just when the first sunrays peeked over the high walls. The graveyard was in a worse condition Thomas remembered it being, but perhaps he hadn't been as observant the last time. Even though the bumpy ground made it difficult to walk and tried its best to trip him, Thomas remained patient and took his time with each step.

All the lives lost, all the poorly cut out crosses marking an untimely death of a boy. Had things gone a little differently, he would be accompanying them there, right now. Thomas did his best not to glance towards the newest cross there. Lahey's.

He had planned on sitting down on the other side of the graveyard, near the large birch tree, until he noticed the coffin. With the whole place full of crosses, it was odd how this one was so different. No cross, no anything. On closer inspection, the words were carved into the coffin itself. Thomas crouched, pushed the dirt and leaves away. What did it say?

21/06/01. The date, clear as a day, written in the wrong order under a paragraph's worth of unreadable text. Thomas looked around, thinking. He doubted Newt and Galileo would agree to give him the information he was dying to know, so it left him with only one option. He had to decipher the text.

He made himself as comfortable as he could and started his work. He gathered the soil around him into small piles, and then he took small doses of it and placed carefully on top of the deeper parts of the writing. His own eyes couldn't decipher the words, but perhaps making the text darker would help?

Of course, it didn't work. It would've been too easy. Thomas stared at the coffin for the longest time, a question written on his face. There weren't too many ways of how he could try to make the text readable, so he settled with the one most likely to give results. He had to carve the deeper parts even deeper. It was more time-consuming than Thomas had thought, but it did get results.

 _In loving memory of Lusi and Hak,_

 _the first ever shanks to arrive the Glade._

 _Thanks to them we know not to dig too deep._

.oOo.

The next day, Thomas returned. The first half of the day he sat next to the birch tree, dozing in and out of sleep. At one point he realised he should probably eat something, so he visited the Kitch and stole a few cucumbers from there. When he got back, he wasn't in the mood to waste the day away; he felt like doing something. His gaze caught sight of The Coffin, the one he'd worked on the day before, and he figured he might as well continue his little project. It's not like he had anything better to do, as all the other Gladers were at work and thus unable to entertain Thomas.

In the morning, he had poked his head into the girl's Med-room to see how she was doing. Jeff had been there and explained that Lucky wasn't showing any signs of waking up. ("What? We can't just keep referring to her as 'The Girl' all the time!" Jeff had said in response to Thomas' question. "Besides, the name suits her, don't you think?")

By the evening, Thomas had deciphered two out of the remaining three unreadable lines.

 _We'll miss you!"_ _—_ _Link_

 _"I told you it_ _was an awful_ _idea!"_ _—_ _Din_

A faint smirk graced Thomas' lips at the last comment. To think that you're given a chance to say your respects, to have them quite literally carved onto the coffin itself, and you choose this... It didn't matter now. They were all dead anyway.

 _Wait_. He jumped to his feet and did a quick tour of the graveyard, checking each cross' name-tag. As he had suspected, none of those graves belonged to anyone named Link or Din. How could that be? He knew all 61 living Gladers by their names, and not one even resembled them.

.oOo.

Thomas knocked three times.

"Yeah?" Newt asked, his voice deeper than usual. The clothes he wore were wrinkled. He busied himself with rubbing his eyes.

Thomas didn't care that he'd just woken up the other guy. "Every time someone dies, they get a cross put into the Deadheads, right?"

"Yes?"

"Then explain to me how there are no crosses, no graves, no anything for Link and Din."

Newt's eyes widened. "Link and Din? How do you—"

"It doesn't matter. Just tell me the truth. I know you know."

His eyes glinted an unknown emotion. "Okay." Newt took a breath in, his gaze hopping from one place to another. "Um, how am I going to say this... Gally and I, right? Well, those aren't our actual names, the names we remembered once we showed up here. Gally was Link, and I was Din, you know? We changed the names when Lusi and Hak died because... Honestly, I'd rather not tell you the reason."

Thomas crossed his arms on his chest. "You expect me to believe that?"

Newt was taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"You have never, not once, answered my questions as willingly as you did right now. I've always had to beg you to say anything at all, and even then you've stayed quiet. Am I really supposed to think that now you've had a change of heart?"

Newt mimicked Thomas' posture. "What's the deal with you?" he asked after a brief pause. "You're mad when I don't give you answers and you're mad if I do."

"I wouldn't be mad if you'd tell me the truth."

"Why would I lie to you?"

Good point. "I don't know. You want to hide things from me, from everyone. That's just who you are."

"I..." His voice faded into nothingness. "I don't care if you don't believe me. It's my answer. Go ask Gally if you doubt my explanation." He closed the door right under Thomas' nose.

.oOo.

Twenty minutes after the sunrise, Thomas was already working on his project. He was as pumped about it as he'd been the first day, and the hours flew by. To his frustration, the last line had suffered the most damage and thus took the most time to decipher. He wasn't exactly surprised when it later turned out that the words had been struck through.

 _"I hope you found peace,"_ _—_ _Newt._

Newt. What were the shuck chances.

He opened the door after the first knock. Thomas nearly punched him. "You lied to me."

Newt's hair was a mess, as if he had raked his hands through it hundreds of times. "Come in." He stepped out of the way. "About time you see this place from the inside, no?" he asked, failing at making a joke.

He, of course, didn't need to know that Thomas had visited his house once before, at a time what seemed like months back. The paintings still covered the walls; however, the easels had been put away and replaced with one single chair. Newt had been expecting him.

Thomas sat on the chair while Newt sat onto the edge of his bed. "Well?" he asked, crossing his arms. "Tell me."

Newt gave a sigh. "No lies?"

"No lies."

"Okay." Newt fidgeted with his fingers. "Don't freak out, alright?" He paused for a moment. "Well, you know that we've been here for two years, right? First off... that's not true." Another pause. "We've been here for three."

Now that was something Thomas hadn't been expecting. "Why even lie about that?"

"I'm getting there." Newt said, slight irritation in his voice. "The thing is, we've been here for three years, not two, and that's why the coffin you found doesn't resemble the others. We did things differently back then. Hak and Lusi, as you've probably understood by now, were the first ones to die, ever. Came as a shock to all of us, you know, since nothing like that had happened before. We weren't conscious of the fact that we're not all that safe here. Didn't know death was a possibility." Newt's expression turned bitter. "At the end of the first year, a bunch of us wanted to escape this place once and for all. We were done with the Glade. When we were halfway through the day, I changed my mind. I didn't want to die out there and thought it was safer to come back. Gally and a few others thought the same, so we turned around and came back." He trailed off, closed his eyes shut while shaking his head. "Gally and I were faster than the others. We got back just when the Gates began closing. Never saw any of them again."

Thomas didn't dare interrupt.

"With Gally and I being the last ones to survive, we made a pact to keep the first year a secret. By the time the new Greenbeans arrived, we had everything figured out—the Caste System, the Death Circle, everything. We didn't want the same thing to happen with the new bunch."

That answered so many questions. The world began to make sense. "I don't understand why you couldn't have told me this before. Sorry to say, but it's not really that groundbreaking. Tragic, yes, but not something you can't trust others with."

Newt's expression didn't change. "You're right. It's not."

"There's more?"

"What makes you think that?" Newt asked, knowing full well Thomas was right.

Thomas' eyes narrowed. "Come on. You've been acting suspicious nearly every time I've spoken to you. There must be more to the—wait." Thomas gathered his thoughts. "You've been acting suspicious around me, not the others. _Me_. You remember me, don't you? You know who I am."

Newt refused to meet Thomas' gaze. "Yes and no." Before he could continue, loud knocks echoed through the room. Newt and Thomas shared a questioning look.

"Lucky woke up," Jeff said, out of breath. "She's totally out of it, wants to talk to somebody Connor. Come see for yourself."

Newt broke through his frozen state. "Thomas, come with me," he said without looking back. "Let's see what the girl has to say."

.oOo.

A large crowd stood around the Med-house, speaking in curious whispers. "Yo, Newt! Over here!" Clint yelled from somewhere. Although Thomas hadn't noticed Clint's greyish mop of hair anywhere, Newt evidently had, as he dived into the mass of people without a moment's notice. Thomas could barely keep up.

"—ridiculous! How does she even know who—"

"What's going on?" Thomas asked once there. Galileo had already managed to start a conversation with Newt, despite Thomas arriving there only seconds later. "Where's the girl?"

The three of them turned to look at him. Newt and Galileo shared glances. "She's inside," Clint said. "I don't know how, but she found a broken shard somewhere and is now threatening to hurt anyone who comes close. She demands to see—"

"You," Newt and Galileo said in unison. Galileo continued, "She wants to see you, Greenie. Don't know why, so don't ask." He stepped beside Thomas and pushed him towards the building. "Come on now, don't be shy."

Thomas, puzzled as ever, let Galileo push him to the front door.

"Want me to open it for you?" Galileo asked, referring to the door, being a sarcastic little piece of klunk.

"I'm good, thanks," Thomas answered in a similar tone, opening the door himself. The voices got muffled once he shut it behind him.

Sunshine peeked in from the spaces between the walls, illuminating the hallway. The honey brown colour felt out of place, as it created an illusion of safety. Considering how Lucky had found herself a shard of glass and Thomas had nothing but his own two hands, the atmosphere was certainly a lot more dense. He had seen the girl, specifically her muscular arms and legs, and he had no doubt in his mind that should it all come down to a fight, he would lose. But only because she had a sharp piece of glass to defend herself with, of course.

The floorboards creaked under Thomas' weight. "Who's there?" a feminine voice shouted, unexpectedly low and scratchy. "Go away!"

Thomas held up his hands as he slowly stepped into the girl's field of vision. "I'm not here to hurt you," he explained, calm. "I came to see if—"

Lucky had balled up on her bed, a hand outstretched with the infamous weapon. Her short hair had probably seen better days, just like the blanket that now lay on the ground, all crumpled. However, her long-lasting make-up hadn't smudged one bit, her eyeliner as dark as on the day he'd found her and lips just as red. Her pale, freckled face tied it all into a rather interesting sight. "It's you," she said, surprise in her eyes. Then, she drew her eyebrows together and raised her chin. "Who are you?"

"I'm—My name's Thomas. I want to help you."

Her jaw was set. "Why can't I remember anything? What did you do to me?"

Thomas picked up a chair that had fallen over, placed it the correct way up, and sat down, not once losing eye contact with the girl. "Everything's okay, it's happened to all of us. We... we don't know why we're here or where _here_ even is, but I swear, we don't mean you any harm."

Lucky lowered her hand. "Why should I trust you?" Her piercing gaze sent shivers down Thomas' spine.

"Because I'm telling you the truth. Although I got to say, I'm not the best person to explain all this..."

She shook her head. "You lied about your name. Why should I believe anything you say?"

Thomas raised his eyebrows. His right foot couldn't stop tapping the ground. "What?"

Her gaze shifted to the door for a moment before returning on Thomas. "You heard me. Your name. It's not Thomas."

"What is it, then?" _Can she remember me?_

"Connor. You're Connor." Before Thomas could ask, she added, "I know you, I think. I can't pinpoint how."

Interesting. "You may be right, I wouldn't know. My name hasn't come back to me yet and probably never will. I was named Thomas just for the sake of calling me something. Usually people remember their names within the first few days of being here, so don't—"

"I'm Teresa."

"Okay, Teresa, it's nice to meet you." Thomas flashed a smile. "I'm sure the others can't wait to meet you."

Teresa humphed. "They nicknamed me Lucky. I'm not so sure I want to meet the people who gave me the name of a dog."

"Well, that's what you get when a group of teenage boys have to deal with anything related to girls—their brain turns to mush."

She pressed her lips into a thin line before speaking. "Could you, uhm, not refer to me as a girl? I feel uncomfortable with that. I'm fine with the pronouns and such but..."

"Yeah, sure. Sorry." The ice was broken, and the atmosphere of the room was much friendlier. "Would you mind if I brought a few of my friends here? They can explain everything—"

"No. I want you to fill me in."

Thomas nodded, a line appearing between his eyebrows. He hated how she kept on interrupting his senteces. "Okay. But can I go tell them real quick that this is going to take a while? Don't want them to think I'm dead or anything."

Teresa glanced at her weapon; her mouth stretched into something akin a smile. "Alright."

.oOo.

Newt opened the door after the second knock. Wordlessly, he stepped back, motioning for Thomas to come in, which he did. As Thomas passed by Newt, he noticed one of his cheeks glowed red, as if he'd been at the receiving end of a strong slap. His eyebrows rose; Newt pretended not to notice.

Thomas sat down on the very chair he'd sat on just hours before, his hands crossed, expectant. "The girl seems to be thinking my real name, the one I don't remember, is Connor. Care to tell me why's that?" Newt already opened his mouth, but Thomas prevented his next words. "Before you say anything, I want you to know that I heard Clint speak when he came to fetch you. He told you the girl wanted to meet Connor, yet you immediately turned to me to bring me along. What am I missing here?"

Newt leaned on the closed door, his hand making a mess of his blond hair. A few strands escaped, fell on the bright blue eyes. "Look. A long time ago, there was this kid, Connor. A Runner, just like you. In fact, you two look pretty much the same, save the hair. The jawline, eyes, nose... Perhaps shorter than you and a lankier build. He died. Went to the Maze one day and never came back. That was more than a year ago now. When the girl asked for Connor, of course we sent you; what else were we supposed to do? Especially if she'd see you sometime later and accuse us of lying to her."

The crease between his eyebrows deepened as a memory played out before his eyes. The graveyard, six, now seven, crosses looking hollowly back at him. One particular cross, however, slightly different than others. The cause of death had been struck through and replaced with a much poorer writing, claiming the boy had died of a broken heart. The name on the grave proudly shouted _Connor_. "I've seen his grave, I think, or at least the cross. It proclaimed he died of a broken heart, why?"

The tiniest of bombs went off in Newt's eyes. Goosebumps appeared on his hands as if he was cold. Who knew, perhaps he was. "He broke up with his boyfriend of the time. Just before the walls closed, he ran out. Those who saw him told later that his face was void of all emotion, if maybe relaxed, at peace. The guy knew what he was doing. Totally out of character, if you ask me." He shook his head, opened his eyes. "People are full of surprises, I guess."

Thomas' eyes narrowed. He untangled his hands, opting for holding them in his lap instead. "His boyfriend changed the writing on the cross?" He didn't even have to ask; he knew the answer before Newt gave a short nod. "That's so fucked up. I can't—how do those things even happen?" He stood up from the chair, unable to stay put. "Anyway, thanks for being honest with me for once. I appreciate it." Thomas offered Newt a strained smile.

Newt pushed himself away from the door, his right hand grasping for the handle. He rolled his eyes. "Anytime."

When Thomas had stepped out, he looked back, his gaze meeting Newt's. "Is his boyfriend still alive?" he asked on a whim, planning to drop by the guy's house later to offer his condolences and possibly find out more about the way things were back then. "Who is he?"

Despite the lack of light falling on Newt's features, Thomas noticed a sad smile embracing his lips. "Me."

* * *

A.N. We're finally getting to the meat of things. God, I've been dying to tell you all this! Now you pretty much know why Newt acted so strange around Thomas all the time—he reminded him of his ex-boyfriend! Plus how Gally and Newt came to power. Plus why Newt kept so many secrets. Oh, what do you think of Teresa? What are your predictions as to what's going to happen now? All feedback's appreciated!

On another note, for those who don't know, I usually post new chapters every other Sunday. If I can't make it in time, I post it the Sunday after that. :)


	16. Chapter 16

Since Teresa hadn't arrived in the Box, the usual rules didn't apply to her. She wasn't going to be put through the Tryouts, and instead she could choose a job for herself based on how much she liked the job's description. Almost the entire Glade believed that she would of course pick something suitable for a girl, such as cooking or stitching up the boys' injuries. Their small minds couldn't even contemplate the thought that perhaps she'd choose something different, which was why they were all surprised when Teresa chose the job of a Bricknick.

Thomas shook his head, maintaining a steady pace. How did they not understand that she wasn't like that? Her muscles and dark make-up should've been a hint enough, no? Her whole demeanour should make them understand.

"Good job," Saph's barely audible voice said as Thomas took the last turn. "Another day well done."

The Glade welcomed him back, gave Thomas a soft hug in the form of a warm breeze. The mechanic bird had never once showed its face, a fact that wasn't neither good or bad. On one hand, perhaps the bird would've led Thomas to another person; on the other, it might've very well cost him his life.

He stopped dead in his tracks about ten meters before the forest. How had he not noticed it until now was beyond him. He blinked no less than three times, gaze directed upwards. Clouds, the whole sky full of them. His stomach churned. He had a bad feeling about this.

.oOo.

The Shack's general atmosphere could very well be described with a word synonymous with chaos. Shouts on top of shouts, stern voices quieting even sterner ones. All that could be heard even before entering the Shack. The moment he stepped inside, however, everything quietened. "What's with the crazy weather?" he asked, already removing his backpack. The conversations returned full force, all of them ignoring Thomas' question.

Saph, being the only friendly one of the bunch, stood up from behind his table, gaze set on Thomas. "No shuck idea. Galileo's called a meeting, though." He shrugged. "Should start in half an hour."

Thomas, having crossed the room during Saph's talk, sent him an appreciative smile, no matter it barely touched his lips. He would've thanked him, hadn't the rest of the present Runners caused such a ruckus around them. The sounds got muffled the moment he closed the dressing room's door behind him. About ten meters long and five in width, the room nearly suffocated him every time he found himself there, even more so when a few others were present. As he rid himself of his shirt, the first drop of water hit the building's metallic ceiling.

.oOo.

The Meeting Room had its similarities with the Skizzle. For example, there were no windows and contained a large amount of benches, out of which about a quarter was taken. However, the seats formed a shape akin a circle around the centre and no chairs were placed in the free space in the middle.

Thomas' attentive gaze spent no second wasted, found himself a seat in the second row. A pat on the back welcomed him when he sat down, no surprise at all upon examining the person behind him and discovering Saph's presence. Thomas held his right palm on top of Saph's for a fleeting moment, then turned his attention towards the sound of a throat being cleared. Saph's hand left Thomas' shoulder a second afterwards.

"There's been much too long between our last meeting and this one," Galileo's voice boomed. Newt stood next to him, solemn, just like Galileo. He nodded once, agreeing with Galileo's statement. "A lot has happened and even more things need discussing." His hand did the slightest motion, giving the speaking role to Newt.

Newt rolled open a paper with presumably all the evening's topics written on it. "Let's start from the beginning. Fex." Thomas seemed to be the only one with widened eyes, caught off guard. "As some of you know, he passed away three days ago, after suffering tremendously from the baby Griever induced bite."

A few murmurs broke out. Galileo took over. "The poison eventually reached his heart; there was nothing we could do. We're still not sure of the Griever's whereabouts, but we have reason to believe it ran back into the Maze." Lots of heads nodded along, as if this was old news already and they should talk about more recent ones. "We've still got vials full of its blood, so it will have to suffice."

Newt looked around. "Any questions?"

"How on Earth did you get yourselves a baby Griever?" The words left Thomas' mouth without his particular consent. He wasn't embarrassed to ask; he needed to hear the answer.

A choir of groans sprang to life. Galileo shushed them. "Cut it out. It's not his fault he doesn't know." He made eye contact with Thomas. "Lahey, right? Some time back, he found it from the Maze. Sleeping, switched off, whatever you prefer. He brought it back to us, but on his way here, he fell. The Griever stung him."

Thomas prompted, "And Fex?"

"Although he was a Track-hoe, he was incredibly smart and fascinated by science. We offered him a place among us; he accepted. He demanded to be in charge of the Griever project, we agreed. The next thing we know, he spends all his days and nights observing it, concocting all sorts of experiments on him. One day, it woke up, spat blood on Fex's face, and took off. Fex tried to catch it but collapsed barely meters away from the building. The rest," he said, tone turning an octave lower, "I trust you're already familiar with."

Thomas nodded, for once opting for the polite response instead of a rash one. All the little pieces of information he'd had the access to lined up in his head.

"Any other questions?" Newt asked, not waiting for a response. "Alright. Moving on."

They talked about small pranks the Rebellion had been pulling, how the Box hadn't shown up with the bi-weekly supplies—which was more than concerning—and, of course, Teresa.

"We have to make the Night of the Greenies happen as soon as possible," Helios, a fellow Runner, said, brows furrowed. "She has to find a place to sleep as well as write her name on the wall."

Linima, the Keeper of the Builders, gave his two cents. "Should we, though? Look outside, it's bloody raining! We have to house majority of the Glade somewhere, so they wouldn't have to sleep in the rain. Is there really a point in letting her choose her bed if, for all we know, she may never get a chance to use it? I say let's make this a smaller event, with her just carving her name into the wall."

Some more opinions were heard, then they decided to do as Linima suggested, although for slightly different reasons: they wanted to stick Teresa into the Homestead, so she would have to sleep in the same house as the boys. Then, they made plans of sleeping in the Homestead for the next couple of nights. This discussion made Thomas sick to the stomach, but his objections went unheard.

"And lastly," Newt announced, "the bloody weather." He scrunched his paper into a ball and threw over his shoulder.

Everybody wanted to talk over the others, causing a chaos. Newt and Galileo didn't do anything to stop it, instead exchanging a few words of their own with each other. The opinions varied wildly, ones claiming that the Creators finally realised the Gladers need some rain every now and then, the others thinking it was a warning sign of something bad happening soon. They never reached a consensus.

.oOo.

Due to the never-ending rain outside, Thomas now stared a ceiling instead of the sky. He had gotten so used to seeing a bunch of stars above him, the wood seemed incredibly out of place. Mixed emotions battled inside him. In order to distract himself, he turned to his side in his black sleeping bag, his face towards the general direction of Newt. From half a meter higher, Newt was already looking at Thomas. "Can't sleep?"

Newt gave what could only be translated as a shake of his head; half of his face buried into his mattress. "I'm sleepless most of the nights. Can't even remember the last time I slept for longer than five hours at a time."

"I usually sleep pretty well, so I can't really empathise." Thomas stifled a yawn.

Newt's lips curled. "If you want me to tell you a bedtime story, you can dream on."

A chuckle made its way out of Thomas' mouth. "Here go all my hopes and dreams." His brows furrowed, a frown embracing his lips. "I'm sorry about Connor."

The smile Newt wore vanished. "Me too. But it's in the past now; life goes on."

"Must be difficult to move on from that, especially if I'm around to remind you of him every waking moment."

The only visible eye Thomas was able to see, closed. "Tell me about it." He sighed. "But I manage."

"I'm glad."

Silence swallowed any possible words that could break it, leaving the two boys to muse on their own. It felt nice, being able to talk to Newt without his every other sentence including the words "can't tell you". Out of the blue, Thomas commented, "You never shrug. Why?"

Newt's eye opened, surprised. "Didn't think anyone would notice that." He inched closer to the edge of his bed, closer to Thomas. "Year one, we all had this grand tradition of shrugging on pretty much all occasions we could, different variations of it marking different meanings. Wanted to say hello to somebody? Shrug your right shoulder. Wanted to know what's for dinner? Shrug your shoulders in circular motion. Dumb, really, but we liked it. We had developed our own body language by the end of the year." He paused. "Gally and I dropped everything when we started again. Brought back too many unnecessary memories, you know?"

Thomas considered this. "Let me guess—back then, everybody called Galileo Gally as well, didn't they? And with the new bunch, Galileo forbade to call him with the name."

"Precisely."

"But why are you still calling him that?"

"I tried to do it for some time in the beginning, but it sounded so wrong. Gally thought it best for me to just keep on calling him what I was already used to."

During the night, the rain stopped. However, the clouds never went anywhere, so when Newt and Thomas stepped out of Newt's house the next morning, the grey sky was still present, looming over the entirety of the Glade like a shadow.

"This can't mean anything good," Newt said, his voice low and raspy. "Changes can't ever mean anything good."

The two of them were on their way to the bathrooms, every now and then saying hello to the Gladers crossing their path. Hair messy and gaze dark, not many dared to walk by them. "I agree."

A wall of whispers greeted them behind the bathrooms entrance.

"...do that! I'll get caught!"

"You'll figure something out."

Don, the Keeper of the Cooks, and Chuck, a curly-haired Slopper, were in the middle of a tense conversation which got interrupted by Newt and Thomas' arrival. Chuck paled.

"By all means," Newt said, walking in, "don't let us bother you." His narrowed eyes searched Don's before moving to Chuck's. "We won't say a word."

Don shook his head, grabbed his towel, movements unnecessarily abrupt. "I was just leaving anyway." With that, he was gone. Chuck yelled for him to wait up before following him.

Thomas sent Newt a puzzled look. "Didn't know they're friends."

Newt hanged his towel next to his shower. Under his breath, he said, "They're up to something."

.oOo.

Thomas awoke in the middle of the night due to gigantic raindrops smacking him square in the face. A tired hand made an attempt at pushing the water off, his mind hoping against hope he could resume his peaceful slumber. It quickly became clear his coordination only ever worked when he was up and about; his hand missed his head by ten centimeters. A tiny jolt in his heart, caused by the miss of the target, was enough for his brain to pull itself together and successfully push the excess water from his face. Loud noise, the sound of the rain hitting the roof, the wind picking up its speed—that's all Thomas could hear. Soft material surrounding him. His body had given up on sleep, much to Thomas' displeasure.

Pure darkness. Whether his eyes were open or closed made zero difference in regards of the outcome. He got lucky trying out this theory—the moment his eyelids slid down, another massive raindrop made contact with his skin. Thomas instinctively scrunched his nose, for the second time that night pushed the water from his cheek. Learning from his mistake from before, he brought his hands to his sides to grasp the sleeping bag firmly, then rolled his entire body towards the left.

He nearly screamed upon hearing a slight chuckle. His breath caught when he realised how close the other boy must've been—directly next to him, just a bit higher up. "Don't scare me like that!" Thomas finally managed.

Newt almost certainly smirked at that. "Didn't know you get scared so easily. My apologies."

"If I'd have something to throw at you, I would; don't for a second think I wouldn't," he threatened, a smile forming on his lips. His features were rendered completely emotionless when a large, somewhat soft object hit him. A pillow. "You didn't."

"Perhaps I didn't. Perhaps there's a third person in the room with us." Newt's already low voice lowered further. "An old man who likes watching young boys sleep."

Newt was so different now that he'd allowed Thomas a peek into his past. No more tension eating away their conversations, an end to Thomas' stream of unanswerable questions. With the layer of secrecy removed, they were just two ordinary boys. Friends, even.

Thomas threw the pillow back at Newt. He sat up and leaned his back against the chest of drawers. His hand made his hair more of a mess than it'd undoubtedly been before. "Why are you even awake? It must be like three am." Since Newt hadn't changed his position, Thomas was acutely aware of their heads being only centimeters apart.

Newt's breath tickled Thomas' cheeks as he spoke. "My thoughts kept me from falling asleep."

"There's a lot to think about; I can agree with that. I can't imagine what it must be like for you and Galileo, having to have to deal with these things. Especially the weather. It's been quite intimidating; everyone's scared."

A pause. "I thought you liked rainy weather?"

Thomas' eyes narrowed. He didn't remember ever telling Newt his preferences.

Newt caught onto that and rushed to explain, "You talked when you were unconscious the other day. Did you know that I was the one who found you? In the shower-room, of all the places."

"I... No, I didn't know that."

"At first I thought you had fainted—heard you collapse. But when Clint put alcohol under your nose, you never opened your eyes." The following words came barely above a whisper. "We couldn't figure out what had happened to you... thought you'd fallen into a coma of some sort."

Thomas closed his eyes, played with a hole in his trousers just below the knee. "That was certainly an experience. I was confused out of my mind when I awoke. It's like... I stood there, in the shower, and closed my eyes for two seconds. When I opened them, I was in a completely other place. I didn't even realise how I got there—thought I teleported." He cracked a solemn smile. "I'm glad it hasn't happened again."

"I'd imagine so. Would be a bit worrying if you'd look forward to it happening again, wouldn't it?"

.oOo.

"What do you mean we're not running today?" Arsy asked, his words rushed and angry. "We're shuck human beings, ain't no water gonna hurt us."

Minho's gaze was serious as he gave his answer, although it certainly didn't echo in his tone. "Yeah, you're absolutely right; how was I so blind before. Let's just pack our things and go... oh, wait. Our sandwiches, they're going to get soaked. No matter, what's a little hunger gonna do to us. Besides that, nothing will stand in our way, right? Wrong. The bracelets, you dumb shank. They're electronical devices. You know, water no good on them."

The rain showed no signs of stopping, as if somebody kept throwing bucketfuls of it down the sky. The previously soft wind had had a change of heart and now worked another agenda: making the Gladers feel as uncomfortable as possible. Paired with the rain, they did a fantastic job.

The Runners had gathered into the Shack as usual, except on this particular day, they weren't going to leave in their running gear. Thomas had managed to secure himself a seat, a privilege not many of them had. He sat on his chair backwards, rested his hands on the back of it. Minho and Arsy stood mere meters away from him, the former having his arms crossed with an _are_ _-_ _you_ _-_ _really_ _-_ _going_ _-_ _to_ _-_ _doubt_ _-_ _my_ _-_ _orders_ look on his face.

Arsy, on the other hand, had his chin up and a defiant glint in his eyes, one hand placed on his hipbone while the other was free to illustrate his words. "We can't just _not_ run, either!" His eyes narrowed. "Today could very well be the day something changes in the Maze!"

Minho's tiny smirk didn't waver. "After years of changing each and every night, I'm sure it's going to do it today as well, yeah. Well, you're free to go check it out—on one condition." He took a step closer to Arsy and despite having to crane his neck to see him properly, there was no doubt as to whose words carried more weight. "Find one person in this room willing to come with you."

Arsy's expression froze. He didn't even need to look around; everyone else had already taken multiple steps backwards. The message was clear: _sorry, but you're on your own_. Before anything else could happen, Arsy stomped away, his neck reddening considerably in the process. The moment the door closed behind him, the atmosphere lightened.

"Anyone else in the mood to bitch about my decisions?" Minho asked light-heartedly.

The day dragged on like no other. Most of the Galders had taken shelter in the three-storey Art Centre, as it was the only place in the whole Glade that offered any sort of entertainment for them. Drawing, painting, playing board-games, listening to the ones who could play instruments, watching the shows the actors had put together... those activities distracted their minds from the fact that nothing made sense anymore.

A cold hand landed on Thomas' shoulder. Thomas, who was in the middle of watching the the actors' third performance of the same play, jumped. He hadn't even heard anyone coming. A quick look upwards told him the identity of the person behind him—Don. Of course it was Don. In all honesty, Thomas had already begun to hope Don forgot the whole recruiting him to the Rebellion thing. If he would've forgotten it, Thomas wouldn't have had to face the question left up in the air: was he going to side with them or not? He didn't know which option was the right one, if there even was a right one. Thomas stood up, offered a nod as a hello.

Don had seen better days. His skin had a grey tone to it, his eyes lacked humour. He took a step back, his head motioned towards the exit. "Come with me."

Thomas' heart skipped a beat. This talk wasn't going to be nearly as light-hearted as the first.

Don led the way, took the path that had the fewest witnesses to their departure. Once outside, the pair of them rushed to the very same tree they had had their first meet. However, this time around, Don climbed it instead of just stopping under the branches. Thomas followed suit, soon sitting on a large, strong branch across Don's. He held his right hand up, his fingers firm around the branch above him; he leaned his back against the tree's trunk. Don sat farther away from the trunk, but he managed to lean against another, smaller branch. He'd been there quite a few times, it seemed, considering how at ease his movements were.

"I was the one who founded the Rebellion, you know. Ite and I. He... we came up together, in the box. I chose to become a Cook, he chose running. A cool guy, had a friendly aura around him." Don's gaze was directed strictly ahead; he couldn't see Thomas' short nod of encouragement. "A few weeks later, he came to me, said we gotta talk. We found a quiet place for it, the tree we're at now. And then he told me we'd been lied to, that there was a Maze out there instead of the Death Circle. I thought he was lying, but then I figured he wouldn't have had any reason to. He was telling the truth. He spoke about the oath he gave, how he didn't care about breaking it. I agreed to help him share the truth. Why wouldn't I? I was shuck angry about being lied to. Fast forward a couple of weeks later, we had recruited our first few members. We had pretty much no idea what to do; we couldn't just scream the truth out loud, we would've been banished for sure. That's when we came up with the idea of playing small pranks on them. It's not much but a whole lot better than nothing. A week after that, Ite couldn't take it anymore. He thought it was going nowhere and there was no point in doing this. He stormed off with promises to talk to Newt and Galileo about the situation. Next day, he didn't come back from the Maze. He died. I'm absolutely positive Newt and Galileo were behind it. That left me in charge of the Rebellion along with a deep hatred towards the Elite."

Thomas raked his free hand through his damp hair. It was a lot to take in. "How long ago was that?"

"Two years."

The wind dancing around them did a good job at making Thomas uncomfortable; his hands were freezing along with the rest of his body. He was barely noticing it, though. "I'm sorry."

For the first time, Don met Thomas' gaze. "I didn't tell the story to earn your pity. I did it so you could understand what the Elite, the Highs, whatever you call them, are capable of. They killed someone just because they didn't agree with his views. How shuck twisted is that? Why are they even allowed to be in charge beats me."

Thomas considered this. "You can't be sure it wasn't an—"

"Accident? Oh, please," he scoffed. "Even you are smarter than that." Don shook his head, changed his position on the branch, let one leg to dangle over the edge and brought the other close to him. "The rain is a sign," he began, moving the conversation into a different direction. "It's only going to get worse from here on out. I can bet it'll soon morph into a thunderstorm and something even worse after that. The Creators are giving us a sign that it's our turn to do something, anything. And so we will. The question is, are you in with us?"

There it was, the question Thomas had wished wouldn't make an appearance. "What are you planning to do?" he asked, buying time.

Don's face split into a smirk. "As if I'd tell you. For all I know, you're going to run to Newt the first thing this conversation's over and tell him everything. You think I haven't noticed you've been staying with him?"

Thomas was embarrassed to admit the thought of sharing all this with Newt had indeed crossed his mind. "What's this got to do with anything? Everyone has to share their house until the rain stops."

"Not everyone. Galileo doesn't. I'm sure as hell Newt doesn't have to share, either. He just wants to. Because you two are such good friends now, are you not?"

Thomas asked, "If that's your opinion, why are you even telling me all this? If you think I'm just going to run off with your information."

Don sighed, his face carrying mixed emotions. "A part of it is because I already outted myself to you when I asked you about this the first time. The bigger reason is that I hope against hope that you're going to join us."

"Why? Why am I so important?"

"You're a Runner. We need you specifically on our side to tell the Glade about the Maze. So, how's it going to be? Are you in?"

His head tapped lightly against the rough bark behind him as he processed all this. What was the right thing to do in a situation where both options were wrong?

"Yeah, I'm in."

* * *

A.N. Oh boy. I can't believe we've come this far already. We're more than 60% through with the entire story at this point. Gosh. Anyway, I have some tiny news. I'm currently working on another project, which means this one isn't on top of my to-do list anymore. However, I will keep updating at a normal rate. Why I'm telling you this is that if you see a slight decrease in the quality of this fic, you'll know why. Although I do try my best to keep it up to par with what it's been so far, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to succeed in it. You feel? On a happier note, so many things are to come. I have about 5 chapters written ahead, and man oh man, a lot happens. This last quarter of the story is going to be a lot more action-packed, and a lot more will happen. At least, that's how it seems to me at this moment. Thank you all for reading!


	17. Chapter 17

It's only going to get worse from here on out. The rain'll soon morph into a thunderstorm and something even worse after that. The Creators are giving us a sign that it's our turn to do something, anything. Thomas couldn't get those three sentences out of his head. His mind screamed the words at him every chance it got, effectively causing a headache. Why were those words so important? Why couldn't he move past them? He suffered in his inability to understand what his mind was trying to tell him.

Hours passed. An easel stood before Thomas, a paintbrush in his hand. He wasn't too sure how this situation came to be, and to be frank, he didn't really care. His hand moved on the paper freely, formed bright red lines wherever there was enough free space.

When Thomas wanted to push his hair away from his eyes, the brush landed in an unfortunate angle and dipped his cheek. The small action brought Thomas out of his daze, and he reached over to the table on his left to grab a tissue. Before his fingers could grip the soft fabric, he froze. His head turned towards his painting, his hand retreating. He hadn't realised it while making it, but the lines formed a familiar shape: a square. The Maze. The papers on which the Mappers had drawn the Runners' routes. It must've been the key, must've carried at least some sort of a secret.

Thomas let his paintbrush fall onto the cold, wooden ground. He had no time to waste.

A curly-haired boy walked circles around the Shack, oblivious to Thomas' presence. Thomas, forgotten all about his mission, eyed Chuck with interest. Nobody except the Runners were allowed to be in that area, so why was he there? Odd couldn't even begin to describe this.

"What do you think you're doing?" Thomas asked after a full minute of observing. His luck the rain had decided to take a break. "You're not supposed to be here."

Chuck spun around, expression that of a deer in headlights. "That's none of your business." The blood rushing to his cheeks wasn't exactly helping his cause.

"I find it's very much my business, considering how I'm actually welcome here and you... not so much. You shouldn't be here."

Chuck took a few steps backwards, fidgeting with his fingers. "I was just going anyway."

Thomas had no idea what to say next, and Chuck used the opportunity to flee the scene.

.oOo.

Newt came home late. His gaze landed on Thomas the second he opened the door, and his mouth voiced its first words when he had closed it shut behind him. "What's the meaning of this?"

With a pencil sticking out behind Thomas' ear, he offered the blond a small smile. He wasn't capable of much more, the exhaustion had crept into his bones. "I brought some sketches of the Maze here. I feel like I'm close to—"

"You what?" Newt stormed to Thomas, his brows furrowing. He crouched down, took one glance at the pink papers, and let out a breath. "Those shouldn't be here. Go take them back."

Thomas, sat comfortably in his sleeping bag with his back against the nightstand, found the idea ridiculous. He played with the pencil he'd taken from behind his ear as he talked. "I will. Tomorrow." Newt had made his way to his bed. The frown he wore urged Thomas to continue. "I'm just too—" a yawn interrupted his sentence, "—tired. And it's not like the papers are going to care where they spend the night."

Newt's expression softened. "Fine. But I'm not happy about this." He stepped out of his sandals and jumped straight to bed, dived under the blanket in a smooth move.

Thomas placed the papers beside him and as soon as he was done, Newt killed the light. Under his breath, Thomas said, "When are you ever happy about anything." He wasn't sure whether the blond heard him or not.

.oOo.

The rain had stopped. He noticed it the first thing he woke up. Being used to the constant tapping on the roof, this was somewhat out of the ordinary. What was even stranger, though, was the smell. Fire. Something was on fire.

Thomas was up in a second. A quick look around assured him it wasn't the house that was on fire; he wasn't in immediate danger. His heart refused to beat in the normal rhythm despite this discovery. Thomas' gaze landed on the still sleeping Newt, and without thinking it through, he extended his hand and shook him by the shoulder. "Wake up!" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Talking any louder was too much to expect from him this early in the morning. "Something's wrong."

Newt's light blue eyes opened even before Thomas talked; his touch had been enough. He was completely still for a while, only moving to rub the sleep off him. "What's..." His sentence went unfinished. His expression told it all. "A fire. Where?" He threw his blanket away and stood up, the sudden change of position bringing him out of balance.

"No idea, I just woke up myself. Oh." Thomas instinctively grabbed Newt by his shoulders to keep him from falling. It took a moment for Newt to get his feet strong enough to support him.

"Move," he said, not paying any attention to what had just happened. As if it was a normal occurrence to him—losing his balance after waking up. Within moments, he had put his sandals on and run outside.

Thomas cursed under his breath and followed Newt, sleepiness all worn off. In the distance, smoke. Dark, thick smoke rose towards the sky in a thin line. Only one building lay in that area: the Shack. However, it wasn't clear which of the two was actually burning: the forest or the Shack.

Having caught up with Newt, Thomas contemplated whether or not he should go slower and match his pace. Newt wasn't the fastest runner, his limp an obvious factor in it.

"What are you waiting for, go!" Newt commanded. "I'll be grand on my own. See if you can help put the fire out." A frown had taken over his features, sweat formed on his forehead. His nose crinkled slightly every other step he took. It hurt for him to run, yet he did it anyway.

Thomas gave Newt a nod and sprinted past him. A few other Gladers had come out of their houses, looking puzzled, but Thomas wasn't about to slow down to explain the situation to them. They had eyes, sure they could figure it out on their own. When he was farther away, he heard Newt yelling them orders. Newt's ability to react so quickly and make a plan to fight fire made Thomas wonder if anything similar had happened in the past.

At least it isn't windy, was all he could think. This way it's less likely the fire's going to ignite nearby things. An unrelated thought pointed out that it was getting ridiculous how many times he would have to run in this particular forest. The day he came up, when he escaped Lahey, when he trained to become a Runner... And the place wasn't even that big.

Shouts reached his ears long before he saw the faces behind them. Minho and a couple of other Runners were there, discussing plan of action in a rather loud manner. The Shack. That's what was burning. The only window of the building revealed dancing flames inside. It was an awful sight, and the smell was even worse. He imitated the three Runners and grabbed the hem of his shirt, brought it over his nose. His eyes watered.

Minho noticed Thomas first. "Did you bring others?"

"Newt's dealing with them. I came here as soon as I could. How can I help?"

"Well, genius, how about you go get the others. There's nothing we can do on our own."

"I don't see you doing that, so why should I? Is anyone inside?" Thomas asked, diverting the topic.

Minho shook his head. "No, not as far as we know. No idea what even caused the fire. It's not like we left the candles burning overnight or anything; I checked."

Helios, stepping closer to Thomas from behind Minho, said, "I doubt this is an accident. Someone must've set it on fire on purpose."

Sam leaned on another leg for support. "This is interesting and all, but could we have this conversation somewhere farther away? The smoke... it's not really good to breathe in."

Shouts. For a moment, it felt as if they came from inside the Shack, and Thomas' heart stopped for the briefest moment. Newt had arrived, five boys with buckets of water beside him. He himself held an abnormally large bowl in his hands, no doubt filled to the brim with water. His face was frozen into a permanent grimace. The freakishly large bowl was too much for this skinny boy to carry, but he didn't complain. Thomas rushed to help anyway, though.

"Go help the others; I've got this," Newt argued upon realising Thomas was planning on stealing his water.

"You're the one in charge here, aren't you? Shouldn't you run around giving orders so that everything would run smoothly?" Thomas fired back. The moment Newt thought about it, Thomas took the bowl. "Go do your job and let me do mine."

Newt nodded. With as long strides as he could possibly achieve with his limp, he got himself in front of the bunch. Minho was next to him in a second, likely explaining the details of the fire. Newt's eyes stayed on the Shack the whole time Minho talked, his left hand busy raking through his hair. "Throw the water around the entrance!" he instructed them once they stood in front of the building. "Throw it as far in as you can!"

And so they did. Thomas was the last one to throw his load, and to do it, he had to step four steps into the Shack. The smoke was dark and thick. His eyes watered instantly. A cough escaped his throat when he was back outside.

He gave his bowl to Riko who turned and ran back to the Middle to refill it. The situation was akin a relay race with the buckets being the torches in need of a change of hosts.

From the corner of his eye, Thomas saw a blur passing by him, towards the Shack. He blinked, ridding himself of the tears blurring his vision, and caught sight of Newt's back disappearing into the buidling. What the absolute shuck was he thinking?! Thomas looked back at Minho in complete bewilderment. Did he know what was going on?

"Papers! He went to take the papers!"

It took Thomas a moment to figure out what Minho was referring to, but when he realised it meant the maps, his eyes widened. "Why?"

Minho shrugged, his gaze hopping to the few Baggers and Cooks standing a few meters away. "They're important, you dumbass!"

Thomas couldn't understand why Minho didn't go to fetch them instead of Newt, considering how Minho was a lot faster. It didn't matter. The question was, should Thomas go after him?

A loud crash echoed throughout the Glade. A part of the roof on the far left side of the building collapsed. The fire must've started from there, as that part was visibly more burnt than the right part. Newt, though. He was in there. The building was collapsing, and he was still in there.

Minho didn't move an inch, although his eyes were even bigger than Thomas'. Thomas, upon witnessing Minho's unwillingness to move, took a step back. He didn't think. He had to get Newt out of there. Now.

His body assumed a crouching position as he entered. "Newt! You can't be here; the whole thing is going to collapse!" Instinctively, his right arm moved to his forehead to give what little protection it could from the heat around him.

The flames engulfed the entire left wall, not to mention the tables and chairs near it. Another wall, the one right across from where Thomas stood, had caught on fire as well. The maps were placed, luckily, on the right side of the room, a place where not many flames had yet made their way to. Newt was rushing from one table to the next, collecting the top fifty or so papers from the piles. He was trying to gather the maps of all the sectors they were covering.

"What are you standing there like a bloody statue? Help me look!" Newt shouted, his words dripping from underlying nervousness and impatience.

Thomas complied, began his search from the other end, working towards Newt. His hands were trembling, his breathing shallow. The flames grew closer to the two with every given moment, the ceiling taking the biggest hit.

"Watch out!" Thomas shouted upon hearing a terrifying crack from up above.

Newt was slow to react. Too slow. Thomas cursed under his breath without even realising as he ran to the blond and jumped on him to get him out of the way of the large piece of wood falling from the ceiling. The oxygen was pushed out of his lungs once he made contact with the ground, albeit the impact was somewhat softened by Newt's body. The burning chunk of wood had fallen to the exact place Newt had been just moments before.

"Come on," Thomas managed, "we have to—"

Newt wasn't moving. A large puddle of blood gathered under his head. Thomas couldn't believe this. "Newt? We have to go!" Nothing. Why wasn't he shuck moving?! Didn't he understand how serious the situation was?! They could die there if they didn't act now! "MOVE!" Thomas shouted, his lungs hurting. He shook Newt with all his might, not getting why Newt chose this moment to take a break. He could rest later, when they were safe!

His breath caught in his throat, causing him to cough violently. He couldn't breathe, there was nothing left to breathe. Thomas sank to the ground, his hands giving up on supporting his body. A moment, that's all he needed to gather himself. Just a moment.

.oOo.

A tiny hammer hit Thomas' head repeatedly over a short period of time. Imaginary, of course, but the result was the same: his head hurt. He groaned, the short sound sending a jolt of pain through his throat. Coughing, Thomas sat further up, his hands pressing onto his chest.

Rain poured down from the sky like there was no tomorrow—it was a miracle the ceiling didn't let any of it through. The room's lighting wasn't the best; only a few pieces of furniture could be seen from the dark embrace. A chair was placed near the bed, and against the wall lay a nightstand. It was familiar, somehow. It took him a moment to put the pieces together: the Med-room.

Memories came back in a sudden rush: waking up to the smell of smoke, trying to save the maps from the burning Shack... Yet, he couldn't recall how exactly he'd ended up here, alone in a room far away from where he last knew himself being. Did he walk? Was he carried?

The toes of his left leg hurt quite a bit, and he was afraid of what it could mean. Had he stumbled on the way to the Med-room or did he have a first-degree burn there? Moving the toes around, he realised they were wrapped into a soft material, most likely a dressing of sorts. The rest of his body seemed to be in a working order, fortunately.

Newt. What had happened with Newt? Was he in there as well? The sight of a forming puddle of blood under Newt's head popped up in front of Thomas' eyes. He had hit his head, for sure. The force with which Thomas had jumped on him in an attempt to save him from the falling ceiling had backfired and was the cause of it. A frown set on Thomas' lips. Was Newt even alive?

Walking proved rather difficult. The injured leg refused to carry the weight needed, so Thomas had no other option but to limp. Worry over Newt's status clouded his mind and thus eased the pain. How did that saying go again? Something with emotional pain overrunning physical one and vice versa depending on the situation—which one you prefer on feeling.

The dimmest of lights creeping in from between the cracks of the walls was enough for Thomas to map out the plan of the building in his head and not run into anything. Newt's room was empty of other, unnecessary shanks, such as the Med-jacks or Newt's friends. If he even had any. Thomas sat onto the chair conveniently placed next to the bed and gave a sigh of relief. He was alive. The sight of Newt's chest rising and falling moved an immense burden off Thomas' shoulders. After a while, his gaze trailed upwards, towards Newt's head. Half of it was covered with roll bandage. They cut off his hair, Thomas realised. There's none of it peeking from under the dressing, and his hair was quite long... No matter. At least the guy was alive, breathing.

He must've fallen asleep right there, his head resting on the bed and his body sore from being in an uncomfortable position for hours.

"Is he going to be okay?" Thomas asked when Clint entered the room.

Clint, his dark hair a mess and in need of a proper shower, cleared his throat. "You shouldn't be in this room."

"But I am. No need to talk about things we can't change." Thomas' hand held Newt's, the same way he'd discovered it upon waking up. He hadn't wanted to change it.

"The short answer is: I don't know." Clint came to the other side of Newt's bed, searched something from his pockets. "The long one is: he's currently in a coma or a coma-like state, and we can't predict whether he's going to be feeling okay when he awakens or not. There's a chance he hurt his head pretty bad, but we don't know if it's only external or if it reached deeper inside." A small flashlight in his left hand, Clint reached over and opened one of Newt's eyes. He directed the flash straight into the eye, repeated the process on the other one a few seconds later.

"No reaction?"

Clint shook his head, switched the flashlight off and returned it into it's rightful place in his left pocket. "Nothing. But that was to be expected."

Thomas feared the answer to his next question. "When's he going to wake up?"

"I can't say for sure, but we estimate it should be anywhere between a few days and a few weeks."

This is a good thing, Thomas reminded himself. At least he is going to wake up. However, he still felt a pang in his chest when the meaning of Clint's words became clear. "I shouldn't have jumped so hard on him."

Clint let out a breath. "If you wouldn't have done that, he would've been dead."

A rule had been set, one that Thomas' didn't find much pleasure in. He was not to run or do any other activity capable of rendering him breathless for the next week, or until the Med-jacks said otherwise. Although he had to admit, if this had to happen at any given time, right now was the best possible option. The Runners weren't working at all due to the weather, and it's not like he was planning on lifting heavy weights anyway. A little workout here and there would've been nice, though.

Some of the maps had been saved, out of which a few were burnt around the edges. Or at least that's what Minho claimed the following day when he came to check up on Thomas. The incident had hit Minho pretty hard, as his jokes and sarcasm were all half-hearted. Thomas never brought it out to him, but he sure was going to once everything was back okay again.

.oOo.

Now, there are a lot of ways the world could end. For some strange reason, humans are incapable of accepting their life on Earth as is, no. They absolutely must figure out how everything started and how it's going to end. They refuse to admit there's no way they could gain access to information as delicate as this, and thus they come up with wild theories regarding the subjects, despite not knowing the first thing about them. Humans' thirst for knowledge is insatiable. Thomas, identifying as a human himself, of course figured in his wisdom that the world was going to end the moment he heard the crack of thunder echo throughout the Glade.

In all fairness, it sounded pretty far away and he shouldn't have been half as frightened as he was, but the mere way how unexpected it was and how incredibly low a sound it made was more than enough.

Thomas' gaze darted around the Med-room, unable to stick on anything for longer than two seconds. A specific part of his brain ached, and Thomas translated it as his mind repressing a memory. He shook his head. As much as he wanted to remember his past life, it wasn't an option. The walls guarding his memories were too high.

Going by the faint light that crept in from outside, it was safe to assume the day had just started. This matched well with Thomas' intentions; there was no way he could go back to sleep. Within the few days he had slept in the Med-room, a morning routine of his had developed. He would dress himself, check on Newt on his way out of the building, visit the Bathrooms, and then choose a comfortable place to sit in the Art Centre. The rest of the day was usually spent by sitting in that said place and hoping something interesting would happen. It almost never did. This day was an exception.

As soon as he had settled into his corner on the first floor, a small crowd stormed in all at once, dripping wet from the rain. A quick count of heads told there were about seven shanks in total. The group was in the middle of a heated discussion, it seemed.

"...to talk to him about it!"

"He's gonna shuck banish us, that's what's gonna happen when we talk to him."

A brief pause. "All seven of us? No way. He wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't he?"

As they neared Thomas' spot, Thomas himself spoke up, putting down the badly written book he had in hand. "What's all this about?"

The sent each other looks, some cautious, some angry. "None of your business," said the owner of one of those angrier type of looks. The group passed by Thomas without another word being uttered. Thomas shrugged and returned his attention to the book.

They sat into the farthest off nook from anyone else and formed a circle. Every now and then a whisper soft as wind reached Thomas, too silent for comprehension. Curiosity ate away at him. What was going on? What were they talking about? Had something happened?

Just when Thomas thought he was going to stand up and walk over to them to demand answers, Galileo entered the room. The whispers stopped gradually. Galileo had of course realised this and grown suspicious. "What?" he asked, his tone low and no-nonsense. "You wanna say something?"

All of them, the whole group, turned to look at Charles, the one who had jumped up. Determination set on his face, the boy who must've been barely 14, walked up to Galileo, ignoring his group's commands to come back. "How sure are you that you die when you jump off the Death Circle?"

Galileo, caught off guard, crossed his hands on his chest. "Pretty damn sure."

"For all we know, there might be a net down there, you know, to soften the landing, and we just can't see it from up here, right?"

"No." Galileo's brows were knit together. "There's no way anyone would be able to survive the fall."

Charles shifted on his feet. "But you can't know it for sure, can you?"

"Where's all this coming from? Do you shuck wanna go out there to test it out?" Galileo asked, losing his patience. There was the smallest hint of fear in his voice; Thomas wouldn't have caught it, had he not known how the situation really was.

Charles fell silent for a moment, considering. His gaze met Galileo's. "That's exactly what I want to do."

Thomas' heart pumped faster and faster in anticipation of what Galileo was going to respond with. There weren't many things he could do to ease the situation.

"Have you lost your shuck mind? You have a death wish? Trust me when I tell you this, you can't survive the fall." Galileo's neck had reddened considerably.

"How can you be so sure? And I've made up my mind."

Galileo pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't deal with this right now." He left the room.

Charles stood there, dumbfounded. The rest of his group had gotten on their feet and gave him pats on the back. One of them said, "You did the right thing."

Charles, after a moment's silence, nodded. His jaw was set and his head held high. "I know."

Thomas, who had been a witness to the whole situation, spoke up before his mind could tell him not to. "Why are you so desperate to find a way out? Did something happen?"

"Look around you," Charles said, meeting Thomas' gaze. "The weather's been going crazier every few days; do you really think at one point it's gonna stop? Because let me tell you right now: it's not. It's going to worsen to the point where it can't get any worse and by then we're all dead. This is a sign that we should do something, anything, to get out of here while we still have the time."

A thought attacked Thomas from an unexpected angle. What if Charles was a part of the Rebellion? The logic would add up. The Rebellion believed it was time to act, and they were taking the first steps to achieve it. This wasn't good. Newt's words echoed in his mind. At the end of the first year, a bunch of us wanted to escape this place once and for all. They were done with the Glade. They gathered the things they needed and left. Gally and I stayed behind; we knew walking into that Maze was a death sentence. We tried talking some sense into them but... Never saw them again. They all died because they wanted their escape so bad. There was no way Galileo and Newt would let this happen once again.

"Are you sure it's such a great idea?" Thomas asked.

Charles' eyebrow rose. "Why wouldn't it be? Do you know something?"

"No, not at all. I was just wondering."

The suspicious glint in their eyes never left.

* * *

A.N. Okay. I might've lied. All of my attention is now on the other project I'm working on, which means I don't really have the time to work on this fic. However. I am not going to abandon this fic purely because I have already written all of it. It will have 20 chapters in total, which means there's three to go. Yay. (:


	18. Chapter 18

Clint stood near Thomas' bed, his hands on his hips. His hair was a complete mess and in desperate need of combing, but he didn't seem to share the opinion. The medical examination on Thomas had just ended, and if Clint's expression was anything to go by, it didn't go well. When he spoke, his voice was full on uncertainty and discomfort. "How... how important is running to you?"

Thomas' heart skipped a beat, his eyes widening slightly. "How is this relevant?" he asked, but he knew. He knew what Clint was going to say, and he was just buying some time.

"Your breathing–it's too heavy. All the smoke you inhaled has impacted your lungs' ability to process oxygen, which means that until your body heals, you can't really do anything that requires a lot of physical activity." If Thomas hadn't been there, sitting on the bed and seeing Clint speak, he would've guessed he was reading the lines from a piece of paper, as his voice sounded more monotone than it normally did.

Thomas tried to look at the situation calmly and use rational thinking, but the blaring sirens in his mind made it quite difficult to achieve it. "How long?" was all he managed to ask.

"I'm not sure. It depends on how much you let your body rest and heal. It could take months, even years." Clint straightened his shoulders and for the first time, actually looked at Thomas. "I'm sorry to say this, but you can't be a Runner anymore."

 _You can't be a Runner anymore._ The sentence echoed in his mind, pushed all other thoughts aside. This couldn't be. Clint must've lied. "You're wrong," Thomas said after a long moment of gathering himself. "I'm fine. I'm doing fine. I can't even feel myself breathing any heavier than I did before." The words became jumbled towards the end of his sentence, so he took a deep breath in order to calm down. "I'm going to keep on running, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Clint shook his head. "This decision didn't come from me, it came from Galileo. You want to argue this, go talk to him." He had barely finished his last sentence when Thomas was already out of the bed, towards the door.

Galileo had to be somewhere, but he certainly wasn't where Thomas looked, which was pretty much everywhere. It hit him too late that Galileo might actually be visiting Newt in the Med-house, the very building Thomas had been in such a rush to storm out of.

And there he was, sitting by Newt's bed. Galileo didn't even raise his head upon Thomas' entrance. He stared at Newt's unmoving body, an odd expression on his face. Thomas went right ahead and sat on the chair opposite of Galileo, on the other side of the bed. "What do you mean I can't shuck run?" he asked, quite straightforward. He had no patience to play games.

Dark bags rested under Galileo's eyes and his hair was a mess unlike anything ever seen before. The boy was exhausted. "I mean, you can't shuck run," Galileo answered, his voice low. "What's there not to understand?"

Thomas leaned back on his chair, his legs stretched out far before him. He placed his left hand onto the back of the chair. "I'm fine. I'm better than I've probably been my whole life. Tell me, why would you suspend someone who's at their full health? What do you have to gain from this?"

Their gazes met for a brief moment. "Clint's the Med-jack here and his opinion was that you're not fit to resume doing your job."

Thomas' eyebrows rose. "Funny. He accused you of making this decision."

Galileo sat straighter on his chair, pulled away from Newt's body. "I'm the leader. Of course I made the decision."

Thomas shook his head. "That's not what I meant. You place blame on him, he places it on you. Something's not right here."

"You're free to think what you like," Galileo said, crossing his arms. "Was there anything else?"

Thomas brought his legs closer to him and leaned forward. "What was it like before all this?" he asked, changing the topic.

It caught Galileo off guard. "Absolutely none of your business."

This didn't surprise Thomas. He hadn't expected him to give a proper answer anyway. "Was Newt different back then?"

Galileo glanced towards Newt before looking back at Thomas. He pursed his lips. "Yes."

"In what way?"

Galileo abruptly stood up. "Why do you care? He's not your friend."

"Actually," Thomas said, standing up as well, "you're wrong. He is my friend, and I care about him."

"Care about him," Galileo spat, venom in his tone. "You've known him for what, three days? I've known him for three years." He'd walked right in front of Thomas, his right hand helping illustrate his words. "You don't know half the things I know about him, and quite frankly, if you'd know what I know, you'd run away, turn your back to him. You're no friend, just someone willing to take advantage of him."

A muscle in Thomas' jaw twitched. He balled his hands into fists. "I don't know much about him because you two won't shuck let me! You're all about secrets and keeping quiet, all about staying private. The chances really are against me, don't you think? Also, if he wouldn't consider me his friend, why'd he tell me about the past? Why'd he open up to me? And how in the blue moon would I take advantage of him? For what cause?" He had to physically bite his tongue to not say some rather cruel words that he'd probably regret later.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Galileo said, pressing his lips into a thin line and stretching his neck, looking for words. "I know people like you. You're all about fun and games when the times are good but as soon as they show the first signs of turning into something a bit darker, you're gone. Newt's a trusting person, and that's his biggest flaw. He. Just. Never. Learns."

Thomas was borderline offended. "What are you even talking about? Good times and bad times? Do you interview all Newt's friends like this? Who do you think you are; you can't just dictate someone else's life! Newt's free to make his own decisions."

Galileo took a step back, let his hands go through his hair. "You don't know what's going on, you can't understand."

"Explain it to me then," Thomas said, his voice firm. "Why are you so mistrusting of me? What have I ever done to anger you?"

"You don't..." Galileo closed his mouth, for a moment pressing his eyes closed. "This conversation's over."

Thomas rushed to block the door Galileo was going to use for his exit. " You're going to tell me right now what it is that you're hiding from me."

Galileo, although stocky, was more than ten centimeters shorter than Thomas, and he couldn't stand a chance should it come to a fight. "It's not mine to tell," he finally said, significantly calmer, almost forcing the words out.

"Whose is it then, Newt's? In case you haven't noticed, he's in a shuck coma and comatose shanks aren't usually known for their speaking capabilities. Plus, you wouldn't allow him to tell me anything anyway, right? So how about you just tell me right now?"

Galileo took his time. "He wouldn't forgive me if I told you. He's the only real friend that I have, and I'm not going to betray his trust."

Thomas' stance faltered. There was nothing he could say or do to change Galileo's mind, that much was sure. Even if he could, he wasn't that kind of a person to force one to betray the trust of another just to satisfy his own curiosity.

Galileo used Thomas' moment of hesitation to slide past him, into the corridor. As he was leaving, he said, "Two weeks in the Slammer, starting now."

.oOo.

Thomas brought his hands in front of him to soften the blow. The rock was rough under his palms, and the sharper edges scratched his skin. The impact hurt more than he had expected it to. A low groan escaped his lips. He pushed himself away from the ground, so he could turn himself into a sitting position. A distinct sound marked the closure of the hatch. Not soon after, a click followed. The padlock.

Arsy gave a not-so-sympathetic smirk, his orange hair hiding his eyes from view. The message was clear: _have fun rotting in this hellhole_. Thomas glared at him, unable to do much of anything else, as Arsy was already walking away.

Two weeks had to pass before Thomas could be free again. Two weeks before he could run. Two weeks of solitude that was bound to mess with his head.

The yellow ball, his old companion, lay in one corner. With a bitter purse of his lips, Thomas grabbed the ball and made himself as comfortable against the uneven wall as possible. The last time, he'd been there for a day. This time, he had to spend fourteen days stuck between the smothering walls. Inhumane, that's what it was.

A pillow had been added to the short list of things allowed into the Slammer, apparently. Thomas hadn't noticed it at first, its colour remarkably similar with the ground. How generous of them.

The first few days, not much happened. Thomas dozed in and out of sleep and when he was awake, he spent his time figuring out Newt's secret. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. He'd thought Newt had told him everything worth telling, but then again, perhaps it was silly of Thomas to think like that. Everyone had secrets, pieces of their lives they didn't want others to know, and Thomas could respect that. Still, the immense curiosity didn't go anywhere, and thus he found himself time and time again thinking. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that Newt must've killed a man, and there was no other way it all would make sense.

The third day, however, made up all the dullness of the previous days. The weather had gotten worse, a raging thunderstorm terrorising the Gladers each and every day except this one. On the third day of Thomas' imprisonment, the sun came back out. There were no clouds in sight. Thomas was instantly suspicious of this, remembering the phrase _calm before storm_. They'd already had a storm, though, so what could possibly happen that's worse than that?

His joints ached. Tiny, invisible needles made it their business to stab Thomas' left foot until it fell asleep. Sweat trickled down his face, his body not used to the warmth the sun provided. It pained him to no end to know the other Runners were out there, right this second, mapping the Maze, and he was there, sitting, doing nothing.

Footsteps. A shout. "Thomas!" It was Newt. He'd awoken. "I didn't know he was gonna throw you into the Slammer for this."

The words got stuck in Thomas' throat upon seeing Newt. Pale white skin, blood red mouth... it didn't suit him at all. Not to mention his unwashed hair. He must've walked there straight from the Med-house.

Newt crouched and placed a key into the padlock. He pulled the hatch open, breathed a bit heavier than was common for this type of task. It was clear he wasn't yet back to his former health. "I talked to Gally about this and convinced him to let you go. I'd say sorry but you kind of deserved it, you know."

Since the Slammer itself was slightly below the ground, Thomas had to grab Newt's hand in order to get out. Once Thomas was on the ground, Newt lost his balance and swayed around for a moment. Thomas held him in place by his shoulders, looking him deep in the eye. "You shouldn't be out of the Med-house yet, should you?" he asked, tone gentle yet accusing.

Newt pushed himself away as if on reflex. "I can be out whenever I want to be out."

A smile would've appeared on Thomas' face, had he not just gotten out of the Slammer. The place was designed to suck out all the happiness one had inside. "You should really get back there; you aren't okay yet."

"I don't... want to," Newt said, glancing back towards the general area of the Med-house. "I barely escaped my own personal hell and everybody wants me to get back there."

Thomas held his hands up before him. "I was just saying. You're free to do whatever you want."

"Damn right I am."

oOo..

That night, Newt called for a party. A giant, full-blown party. None of the Gladers saw anything wrong with it, but Thomas, and possibly Galileo, took it as a reason to be concerned. Newt wasn't the partying type; he never attended the parties unless he had to. Of course Newt wanted to celebrate his waking up from a coma, but was this really the way to do it?

It started at about six in the evening. The band played a rocking rhythm, but nobody was dancing yet. Thomas sat on a nearby bench, looked around in hope of finding the party-thrower himself. Instead, he noticed Galileo walking towards him. The crease between Thomas' eyebrows deepened, and he stood up, figuring it best to leave.

"Wait," Galileo said, his voice quieter than it usually was. "I want to talk to you."

 _I'm not so sure I want to talk to you_ , Thomas thought, but sat back down anyway. He wasn't risking getting thrown back into the Slammer, no way.

Galileo sat beside Thomas, stretched his legs far out and leaned back on his hands, which were positioned right next to his sides. A thought in the back of Thomas' mind wondered what would happen if he'd hit Galileo's elbows so he'd fall down. "Look," Galileo began after a small while. "What I did to you wasn't exactly fair, but I'm not going to apologise for it. What I said still stands—you don't know klunk about me or Newt. That's not the point." He paused, closed his eyes. "You were right. It's not my place to say who Newt can and cannot converse with. With that said, I would prefer it if you'd keep your distance from him. He's not in a good mental place right now, and it'd help him if he wouldn't have to deal with you on top of other things."

The conversation had taken a whole another turn, one Thomas hadn't expected. For a good few seconds, he had trouble forming words. "What do you mean deal with me? Since when am I a nuisance?" When it became clear Galileo wasn't going to give an answer, Thomas continued. "Besides, how do you imagine I should keep my distance? We shuck live together. Not that I would've done as you suggested anyway."

Galileo's eyes shot open, and his eyebrows drew together. "You live together?"

"Yeah, for a while now. Didn't Newt tell you?"

Galileo shook his head, pressed his lips into a thin line. "Sure didn't."

Thomas smirked. "Perhaps you don't know him as well as you think you do."

.oOo.

It didn't take long for the party to get into the full swing. The crowd was for the most part high on Hys and the other part was working on becoming high on Hys. After the bizarre, stressful week, it was no wonder. Teresa was there as well, dancing with different guys and singing along to the music. It was good for her to relax a little, as she'd been working hard the past days, trying to come up with possible solutions to the various problems the Gladers faced, such as the Box not going back down and the weather getting worse. She'd been accepted to be a part of the secret club, of course.

Thomas was still sitting on the very same bench as before, hadn't moved an inch. He wasn't in the mood to dance and he definitely wasn't going to get himself high. Newt, however, seemed to be in the mood of doing exactly that.

Newt's blond head popped into the peripheral vision of Thomas at about thirty minutes into the party. He was smiling big, a bottle of Hys in his left hand. Correction, a bottle of his on the ground, in pieces, next to him. He'd dropped the damn thing, but that didn't stop his good mood. "Thomaaaas, how are you doing, mate?" he asked when he noticed Thomas. "Why are you sitting all by yourself here?" Newt almost lost his balance, but he managed to keep himself up, giggling.

Thomas jumped up and was next to Newt in two seconds. "What have you done to yourself?" he asked, disturbed. He held Newt in place so he wouldn't have any other bright ideas, such as to fall down or leave. "You hate Hys."

Newt's blue eyes twinkled. "Why should I let that stop me? Sure, it tastes like manure, but it makes me happy. What's wrong with being happy?"

"It screws with your brain, makes you think you're happy when you're not. Come on, you're smarter than this," Thomas answered, stepping closer to Newt so he could hear him better.

Newt's eyes went large. "Artificial happiness is better than no happiness, don't you think?"

His words stabbed Thomas' heart. He'd known Newt wasn't the most lively person to ever exist, but did he really feel like this? _It's probably just Hys talking_. "You're not unhappy in your normal life." Although meant as a statement, it came out as a question.

Newt's goofy smile toned down a bit. "What do I have to be happy about? You're not making any sense, Tommy-boy."

The way he spoke, how he told all this like it was okay, like it was normal for him. It was so incredibly wrong, so sad, Thomas didn't even know how to react. "You have your friends," he finally managed.

Newt snorted. "Gally, he's only friends with me because of what we've gone through together. I haven't talked to Henry in ages; I barely remember him anymore. Some friends."

"What about me?" Thomas couldn't help but ask.

Newt's smile vanished before returning two times brighter. "Have I ever told you how I got this limp? Don't suppose I have." Thomas' heart dropped, and he would've much preferred not listed to this. "You see, I once was in love with a boy. His hair was blond as hay and his eyes chocolate brown. God, how I loved him. Then one day we have a fight and in the middle of things break up. He's a Runner, right? Had just come back from work. _Then_ this shuck slinthead somehow goes and thinks _oh, there is no way on Earth Newt would ever forgive me ever,_ and he takes a peaceful jog into the Maze a minute before the walls are supposed to close." Newt was still wearing his smile, but now he bit his lip. "We searched the Maze, exactly like we searched for you. The difference was, he wasn't there. I was farther away than the others because I was faster than them and more determined. Oh, did I ever mention I was a Runner too? Anyway, I realise we're not gonna find him. I kind of zoned out from then on, you know? Hurt too much. So I climbed a wall and..."

Thomas couldn't let him finish. The boy before him was barely holding himself together. "Don't," he said, pulling Newt close to him, in a hug.

It was supposed to be comforting, but Newt thought otherwise. He struggled himself free, stepping away. "And then there's you," his wavering voice accused. "You're always there, listening to me, comforting me. What's wrong with you?" His face conveyed disgust. "Have I not suffered enough already? Two shuck times you came up with the Box, all distant and blond-haired. The third time you come up, you're," he gestured to Thomas up and down, "this. Exactly the same but so different at the same time. Why can't you just leave me alone?!" Unexpectedly, Newt punched Thomas into the stomach. "Is your life purpose to drive me crazy? Do you shuck exist for the mere reason of bringing me pain and heartache?"

Thomas couldn't quite understand what Newt was so mad about, and he tried his best to follow Newt's long rants. He wasn't too worried about Newt's newly discovered aggressive tendencies, as he wasn't strong by any means, not when he was under Hys' influence. "I don't... what are you trying to say?"

Newt's eerie smile finally collapsed. "I'm trying to say that you have come up here two times in the past and the third time is just now. First two times you were called Connor and this time you're Thomas. You would've been a Connor this time as well, had you not overdosed on your amnesia medicine or whatever."

"Hys is screwing with your mind. You said it yourself, he was blond, I'm brunet. There's no way—"

Newt leaned close to Thomas, his lips right next to Thomas' cheek. "The roots of your hair are blond. The dye is growing out."


	19. Chapter 19

Thomas barged into the Showering Room. Nobody was there—thank God—and he stumbled towards the mirrors on the right-side wall. His fingers curled around the edges of the fireclay sinks as he pushed himself closer to the reflective surface. Forehead almost touching the mirror and eyes hurting from trying to look up so high, Thomas let out a breath. Newt had been right. His hair was growing out, and the roots of his normally dark hair were now lighter, a blond-ish colour.

His fist came in contact with the mirror, hard. Cracks ran up and down of its entirety, getting thinner towards the edges. A few shards fell, making a clinking sound upon meeting with the sink's polished material. His knuckles had left rather unpleasant stains of blood on the mirror.

The whole time, Thomas had been the reason why Newt was unhappy, depressed, even. Galileo's behaviour made perfect sense—he was trying to protect his friend from stepping into the same trap over and over again. Thomas' expression turned grim. He wanted to keep himself away from Newt because apparently his good intentions always ended up with a catastrophe.

Rhythmic melodies twirled around Thomas when he took his first steps outside. The mere thought of going back to the party made his head hurt, so he took the direction away from the noise. Some quiet was exactly what he needed right now.

Thomas had been the one to break Newt's heart in a million pieces. He couldn't imagine living with the idea that it was your fault your boyfriend went off and died, and yet that was Newt's everyday life for the past year or even more. Thomas was the reason why Newt had a limp, why he was horribly depressed. It was difficult to comprehend that after all he had gone through, he had still given Thomas another chance. Should Thomas try to keep his distance from Newt now that he knew what was actually going on, or should he try to make the best of the situation? Sure, he couldn't change the past, but he could try and change to future.

Lost in thought, Thomas had wandered off to the very outskirts of the Glade. The North Gate towered before him, its mouth gaping wide open and inviting him in. Fear took over Thomas' mind. This couldn't be. The sun had set more than an hour ago! Why hadn't it closed?

Adrenaline giving him the energy required and more, Thomas rocketed away from the walls. He had to warn the others; they had to come up with a plan, escape route, hiding places, anything! With the Gates not closing, it was only a matter of time before Grievers found their way into the Gladers' little living area!

The party. Everyone was at the party. For the first time, Thomas was thankful to Newt for deciding to host it with such a short notice. He could tell them his discovery all at once without having to run around the Glade and trying to find everyone.

As the lights came closer, Thomas' sight blurred a little around the edges. He had to get onto the stage and force the band quiet. Why were all these shanks dancing so close to each other? How was Thomas supposed to get through them? Inevitably, he had to bump into someone sooner or later.

"Hey! Watch where you're..." Galileo's voice drifted off when he saw the state in which Thomas was. "What's wrong?"

Thomas took several long breaths before croaking out, "The walls. They haven't closed yet." Was this the right thing to do, telling Galileo before everyone else? He was wasting precious time chatting with him; he had to get up to the stage!

Galileo's face dropped all colour. "Are you sure?" His tone didn't betray his thoughts, although judging by the involuntary step that he took away from Thomas, he was scared.

"Of course I'm sure! I saw the hole in the wall with my own two eyes!" How could Galileo even doubt Thomas at this point? What reason would he have to lie? Thomas' gaze left Galileo's face and moved to the crowd, his mind calculating which way was the quickest to the stage.

"Come with me." Galileo grabbed Thomas' hand firmly into his, almost stopping the bloodflow. Before Thomas could react, Galileo pulled him along.

The music threatened to shatter Thomas' eardrums every step that brought him closer to the source, but Galileo's hand and his own willpower made him push through it. Thomas realised too late that Galileo wasn't dragging him towards the band. The two of them ended up near the oak tree, the one where Casso was busy handing out Hys.

Galileo stopped right before Casso's counter. "Where's Newt and Minho?" he demanded, eyebrows knit together. His voice was no-nonsense.

Casso, suddenly alert, took a moment to answer. "Don't know about Newt, but the last I saw Minho, he was hanging around the benches."

With that, the two were off again, pushing their way to the other side of the crowd.

There he was, lying on the ground, stargazing. Despite the unusual location, he was easily noticeable. "I didn't realise how much I missed the stars," he said when Thomas and Galileo stood next to him.

"We've got more serious things to worry about," Galileo said, offering Minho a hand to help him up. "The walls didn't close," he explained once Minho had gained his balance. "We need to call a meeting, right now."

Thomas couldn't believe his ears. "Are you serious? A meeting? Now? We need to tell the others about this!"

Galileo and Minho exchanged glances. Galileo shook his head. "What do you think is going to happen when they learn about this? They're going to shuck panic, that's what. We can't have that happening before we've figured out a plan of—"

"A plan? What plan?! They're going to figure it out sooner or later and panic even more when they realise we kept it from them!" Thomas' voice had a higher pitch to it than was usual, but he couldn't do anything about it.

Minho stared at Thomas and Galileo, trying to wrap his head around what was happening. "We should definitely call a meeting," he said. "We have to figure out how to tell this to everyone without them freaking out."

"Them freaking out is exactly what we should want to achieve right here! Don't you shuck see? With the walls open, the Grievers can get in! If they know about the situation, they could hide themselves away and find some weapons to fight with!"

Galileo waved his hands around to demonstrate his point. "Hide? Hide where? Do you really think something as weak as wood is going to stop a Griever? We can't have all of them panicking and losing their heads; we have to play our cards right here."

Minho nodded. "I agree. We have to think this through before we do anything."

"What if the Grievers attack right when you're having your oh-so-important meeting? They'd have nothing to defend themselves with!"

Galileo shook Thomas by his shoulders. "Sticks and stones aren't going to help them fight a Griever! This is not how it works!"

Thomas shot back, "Sticks and stones are a hell of a lot better than their bare hands!"

Galileo's attention shifted to Minho. "Take him to the Meeting Hall. I'm going to find everyone I can."

With the both of them so fervently arguing back to him, Thomas couldn't help but doubt his opinion. Were they right? Should they wait with telling the truth to the public? Those seeds of doubt were the only reason why Thomas let Minho drag him to the Meeting Hall without giving much of a fight. They had to do this right.

An eternity passed before Galileo returned with the Highs. The boy took his time finding them all, that was for damn sure.

Galileo couldn't even take his usual seat before the screams started.

.oOo.

The music had stopped to a halt. It felt unnatural for the air not to be thick with melodies. Minho sped past Thomas in their rush to the scene, not saying a word to him. As surprising as it was, Thomas wasn't annoyed with the fact that Minho was faster than him, not in this moment.

Not many of the Highs followed them. Several runners, three Keepers, and Galileo were the only ones out of the bunch to dare dive head first into what was ahead of them. Galileo probably wouldn't have come himself, had Newt not still been somewhere out there.

The sight was confusing. The Gladers all stood still, faces towards the stage. A few of them screamed something about not believing and wanting to check something out themselves. Thomas let out a breath of relief. No Griever had come in.

Minho headed straight to the front of the crowd, and since Thomas had had the same idea himself, he followed. There, alone, a determined look on her face, Teresa stood. She'd climbed up of a few boxes to make herself taller, but upon noticing Minho, she crouched down. "...the worst idea you've ever had!"

Minho fought back. "If you'd calm down, you'd see you're the one having the worst ideas here, not us."

Thomas landed next to Minho. "What the hell is going on here?"

"The Gates are shuck open, that's what's going on here," Teresa whispered, her words rushed. "I went for a walk to clear my head and all the shuck Gates were there, having not moved a centimeter! I had to tell the others about this; we're in some serious danger right now."

Minho tugged at his hair. "Woman, we were just discussing what we should do about that very fact. Had you been around, you would've been invited as well!"

Teresa grimaced at Minho's choice of words but didn't comment on it. "Yeah, sure, blame me. As if I was the one who," she raised her voice considerably, "left the shuck Gates open!"

The Gladers had gotten restless. They were pushing and talking over each other, some of them had made their way to the front to shout angry yells to everyone and nobody at all. With Minho and Teresa lost in their own argument, Thomas had to take things over. He offered a hand to Teresa to help her down, and she didn't question it. Then, Thomas proceeded to take her place on the stand. "Listen!" he shouted, a part of him scanning the crowd for Newt. "She was telling the truth; the Gates are open. But that doesn't mean we have to lose our shuck minds over this. The walls not closing doesn't necessarily mean the Grievers are going to come in!" He paused, catching for breath. "If they do, then this is the plan."

.oOo.

To their immense luck, not a thing entered the Glade the whole night. A guarding system was developed, which consisted of four pairs of Runners being put in place near the openings. They worked in shifts. Thomas was not one of them, of which he was exceedingly unhappy about. He'd voiced his opinion about the fact during the Meeting, but nobody had been on his side.

The Runners didn't go out that day. A change of atmosphere had taken place, and now nobody even thought about entering the Maze voluntarily. That didn't exactly align with the plans of the Rebellion, so of course, an urgent gathering was called. Thomas, who had thought he'd arrived early, was greeted with several faces glancing down at him atop the oak tree. He couldn't help but peek over his shoulder to investigate whether he'd been followed or not. The answer seemed to be the latter. Considering how he took the largest possible detour on his way there, it wasn't surprising. He still felt paranoid.

He slowed to a stop once he reached the other side of the tree. "I did not expect _you_ to be here," he said, his voice strained from his head being bent back. A couple of shanks were sitting on some of the higher branches, but Thomas talked specifically to one.

"Same goes for you." Frypan's face barely conveyed any expression, so different from the way he usually carried himself. Then again, what did Thomas know. It wasn't like he'd been around Fry for long enough to know him.

Thomas found himself a place near Don, figuring the latter would do the most speaking anyway and this way he could hear him better. He nodded a hello to the remaining three shanks: Meris, Ben,and Arel. With the way things worked, it was likely the others didn't really know who else was in the Rebellion. "How many are we waiting for?"

"Three more."

Thomas shifted around, the large branch making for an uncomfortable seating. Nobody tried to start up conversation, busying themselves with picking pieces of bark from the tree or investigating their nails. A few seemed lost in thought.

Ront and Brady reached the tree at the same time, but they'd come from different directions. They high-fived when they met, evidently having planned this arrival beforehand. "So this the Runner you've been talking about, huh?" Brady asked, climbing the tree.

"Yeah, he was the best bet."

"Makes sense," Brady agreed.

When Ront had pulled himself up, everything got quiet again. The last member was approaching from the distance. "Who's he?" Thomas asked, squinting his eyes. The figure was short and dressed in dark, which didn't help his cause.

"That's Chuck." Don smirked. "He's a surprisingly fierce little thing."

A small thought in the back of his mind reminded Thomas of the day not too long ago where he'd caught Don and Chuck talking, no, _arguing_ about something. Not soon after that, the Shack had caught on fire. This couldn't have been a coincidence. "You ordered him to burn down the Shack," Thomas stated, the words feeling odd on his tongue. When Don nodded, Thomas continued with, "Why?"

"It was a back-up plan," Don explained. "If they don't have any maps left, they can't draw any conclusions from those said maps. To put it short: they need to recruit new Runners to get the information back. This means there would be more Runners willing to rebel against the order."

Thomas could see how it'd work in theory, but he wasn't so sure about the reality. "I don't think that's what's going to happen. Galileo and Newt... they wouldn't let it come to this. They'd rather wait a year than bring in a bunch of newbies."

Don nodded as if it was common knowledge. The crease between his eyebrows indicated he even felt slightly offended Thomas thought so little of him. "That's why I said it's a back-up plan."

"What's plan A, then?" Chuck asked, having arrived to the tree. He seated himself on one of the lower branches. The kid didn't much like heights, it seemed.

"Plan A," Don said, his look more serious now that everyone was here, "is exactly what we've come to discuss here today."

Thomas didn't know if he'd made the right choice by choosing to join the Rebellion. Although Don had promised he could leave whenever he desired, Thomas doubted it was the case. Now that he'd seen all the other members, knew of their doings and plans, they weren't just going to let him leave like that. "I'm sure you have some ideas; why don't you share them?"

Don's mouth twitched. "Indeed I have. My idea's the simplest one I've yet come up with. We're going to come out with the truth. Now, now," he hushed the already protesting crowd, "hear me out. Everyone's on edge. The weather, the girl, the Box... they don't know what to think. They're in a more vulnerable position they've been in years. It'd be crazy of us not to even try."

Brady shook his head. "If it doesn't work, we'll all be banished! I'm not so sure I'm willing to die for this cause." Murmurs of agreement.

"Listen," Don said, establishing eye contact with them one by one. "If we don't do something now, we might never get another chance. Not only that, but I'm pretty sure the Gladers are going to believe us. Have you all forgotten we have a Runner on our side now? Why would a Runner, of all people, lie about what's really behind those massive walls? He wouldn't."

"You have a point in there," Ront agreed. "I'm in." Meris and Arel followed Ront's lead, supporting the idea.

"Yeah, sure," Frypan went along, "why not." His tone was bordering on indifferent.

Ben played with a tiny branch he'd snapped off the tree. "I don't know. I feel like it's too big of a risk. Can't we do this without outing ourselves?"

"I'm all ears if you have any suggestions," Don said, the slightest hint of mockery in his voice. "We gotta do this, you understand? I think we have something like a ninety percent shot at succeeding in this, and that's as good as it's gonna get."

Thomas weighed his options. Even if he wouldn't get banished, he'd for sure be reduced to a Slopper. The Runners would hate his guts. Most importantly, Newt would take it as a betrayal. Could Thomas really do this to him after all he had done in his previous lives, when he'd been Connor? "I don't—"

"Don't you for a second think you can talk yourself out of this," Don interrupted, his gaze fiery. "You're the key of this plan. You believe in the cause. What possible doubts could you have?"

Thomas bit the inside of his cheek. "Even if we do go through with this, the Runners would despise me. My own friends would turn against me. I'm not sure I'm up to that."

A small smile played on Don's lips. "You think it matters? You wouldn't have a chance to talk to them anyway once the truth is out, as we'd be gone from the Glade in less than a day. I can assure you, nobody would want to stay here a second longer than necessary."

Do the means justify the end? Was the greater good more important than Thomas' own feelings? The answer was yes, definitely. But then, why did he have all those second thoughts? Thomas made his heart cold. It didn't matter what he thought. It had to be done, no matter the consequences. No matter how much this decision was going to hurt Newt, the one person who hadn't done anything to deserve it. "Let's do this."

The plan was set to be put in motion two to three days from now, depending on how ready they thought the Glade was to hear the truth. Those were going to be the longest days Thomas had ever had to deal with.

.oOo.

Thomas made himself comfortable in his sleeping bag. His back leaned against the wooden wall of Newt's house, and he brought his legs closer to him. A chilly breeze played with Thomas' hair, excited to find itself a playmate. Thomas wasn't as enthusiastic. He pulled the hood of the sleeping bag over his head.

Content with the solution he'd come up with, Thomas relaxed. Finally warm. He felt the soft material with his fingertips, trying to find the apple he'd taken from the Kitch on his way back. It must've rolled to the very back of the sleeping bag. With an internal sigh, he gave up his comfortable position and dived in deeper. He grimaced when his right hand closed around a terribly deformed apple. No, it couldn't have been an apple. What was it? He didn't think he'd ever put anything there in the first place.

Until Thomas brought it to light, some horribly disgusted part of him still thought it was possible that the apple had deformed tremendously somehow, and he was holding it in his hand. The grimace on his face only ever left when he realised what he was holding was supposed to be a tiny toy. A toy soldier, to be exact. Oh yeah. Back when he'd done the try-outs in the Gardens, he'd found the little thing deserted under a bush. He'd forgotten all about it.

"What's that?"

The faint smile Thomas wore faded. A look up confirmed his suspicions. Newt. "It's nothing," he said, throwing the toy back to where it came from. Thomas wanted to say something to prevent the awkward silence, but his mind was empty.

Newt held his hands close to him. "Come inside, it's cold out. We placed everyone else under a roof, too, so it'd only be fair if..."

"Yeah, okay," Thomas said quickly. He removed the hood from the top of his head, opened the zipper holding him hostage. The fresh wave of cold wind on his skin motivated Thomas to hurry up. At least he found the lost apple in the process of moving.

Newt nodded, his gaze following Thomas' every move. He blinked and looked away, opened the door to his house and stepped in. From Thomas' crouching position, Newt's legs seemed impossibly long, and he wondered how he'd never noticed it before. How could Newt even walk with those things? It suited him.

Thomas closed the door when Newt lit up the lantern. No wind, no suspicious shadows... being inside was definitely better than outside. Newt sat on his bed to make more room for Thomas and his sleeping bag.

"Sorry for not telling you the complete truth before," Newt began once Thomas had crawled inside of the sleeping bag. "It's just... not that easy, you know?"

Thomas stared at the door. "It's fine." The apple took over the duties of a ball—Thomas threw it from one hand to the other to busy himself.

"When I came up the Box, you were already here." Newt's voice sounded far-away, and it piqued Thomas' interest. "You're the one who trained me to become a Runner, actually. We must've been what, thirteen? Fourteen? We felt like we were on top of the world, the three of us." To Thomas' questioning look, Newt added, "Gally being the third." He fell in thought for a moment. "One day, you didn't come back out the Maze. Shuck devastated, that's what we were. I didn't much talk to Gally after that; we drifted apart. With you gone, nothing was holding us together anymore.

"The second time you came up the Box, I first thought I was gone mental and seeing things that weren't there. It was about half a year after you'd died. Gally saw the same as I did, though. A miracle had happened. I was so excited. I came to talk to you but you didn't recognise me. When I tried to explain myself, you looked at me like I was crazy. You've no idea what it feels like when your best friend dies, comes back, doesn't remember you, and then dislikes you. Did I mention that you weren't the only one who came up that day? Yeah, Lahey came up, too. You two became inseparable, both wanting to become Runners and whatnot. I was the Keeper back then, and you knew it. You also knew I had a soft spot for you, although you thought it was just because not everything was okay with my head.

"You befriended me. I couldn't say no—how could I? I still saw you as the boy you'd been the first time around. But you weren't like that anymore, I realised it too late. You used me to your own advantage, so both you and Lahey would get to be Runners. Needless to say, I was pretty shuck bitter after I realised what you'd done. Nothing I could do."

Thomas had run out of words to say. "God, that's insane," he managed in the end.

"Tell me about it." Newt turned himself to his side, so he could look at Thomas while he talked. "I hated Lahey with all I had back then. I thought he did this to you, he changed you. Of course, it didn't turn out to be the case. Over the months we had to work together, we became friends, all three of us. I never mentioned my remembering you again, didn't want to put our friendship on the line. Well, one thing lead to another..." Newt pressed his lips into a thin line. "The rest you pretty much know. You went into the Maze after we'd had a fight. And now you're here. Again. For the third shuck time. I just don't seem to be able to get rid of you, do I?"

.oOo.

Newt kept tossing and turning throughout the night. There was no doubt he was deep in sleep. Every now and then a mumble or two escaped the boy's lips, his face contorting into a grimace.

The morning shouldn't have been far away now. For the umpteenth time, Thomas wished the Glade would have watches, any watches at all. The sun clock near the Gardens wasn't particularly useful during the night.

Thomas had leaned against Newt's nightstand, his legs stretched out far in front of him. A shower was on the top of his to-do list, but he had a hard time convincing himself to leave the warm room. The sleeping bag acted as a blanket and brought Thomas comfort. The noisy winds outside had no way of reaching him.

The sleeping boy's face was close to Thomas'. Newt had managed to curl himself into a vague C-shape, which even from afar seemed uncomfortable. His blanket had fallen off the bed entirely, leaving his lanky body without any protection against the somewhat cool air in the room. Thomas, for whatever reason, left his nest and picked up the damn blanket. His hands found the corners, and he placed the blanket on Newt by letting it fall evenly on his figure. Then, he sat back down, satisfied. The frown on Newt's face had lessened a little, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

Thomas couldn't stop looking at him. They had been in a relationship less than a year ago. What had it been like? Had they been happy?

Newt cried out in his sleep, the sound muffled by the pillow under his head. His words were quiet and slurred, the only clearer ones being _no_ and _lying_. The last straw broke when Newt started shaking and showed no signs of stopping. "Newt?" Thomas asked, caution in his voice. Nothing. He tried again. "Newt, wake up. You're having a nightmare." When that didn't work, Thomas stood up once again and gently shook him by the shoulders.

Newt's eyes shot open, full of fear and confusion. "Connor?" It took him a few seconds to come back to the real world. His gaze cleared up and his body relaxed visibly. "What's going on?"

Thomas leaned away from Newt, took back his place on the ground. The room felt a lot warmer than before. "You were having a bad dream," he explained eventually, the words uncomfortable on his tongue.

"Oh." Newt let his head fall back onto the pillow. "Sorry I woke you up."

"It's fine. I couldn't sleep anyway. To be honest, I don't think either of us is going back to sleep any time soon. Wanna go for a walk?" Thomas offered, even to his surprise.

Newt nodded. "That's a good idea."

The night's sky was filled with thousands upon thousands of shining stars, one brighter than the other. Not a cloud was in sight, thankfully. The Glade had just about had it with the rain. A soft breeze caressed Thomas' cheeks, as if welcoming him, telling him he'd made a good choice when deciding to come out of hiding.

The two of them walked around aimlessly, every now and then talking about something trivial, such as speculations about what's for breakfast and whether the weather's going to stay beautiful or not. After a particularly long pause, Newt said, "You do know that I'm not expecting anything from you, right? You knowing we shared a past doesn't mean we're forced to go back to the way things were. Quite frankly, I don't think I'd even want that." It was clear he wanted to add something, but he bit his tongue and stayed quiet.

"I know." He could hear the doubt in his own voice.

The corners of Newt's lips tugged slightly upwards, but the barely-there smile didn't reach his eyes. He opened his mouth, probably to argue back at Thomas, when they heard a low, scratchy noise.

Thomas' feet caught and he nearly fell over, his heart skipping several beats. He examined the surroundings carefully. "What was that?" he asked when he came up empty-handed. The one responsible for making the sound either wasn't in their near proximity or had hidden themselves very well.

Newt's face paled. "It, um, it could be anything. Probably the wind just found some piece of metal lying around."

"The wind's not strong enough to move metal."

"It's strong enough to make a pine cone fall on it," Newt said. Both of them took a few steps back subconsciously.

"There are no pines in the Glade." They shared the opinion that if they don't say it out loud, it's not true. But fooling yourself is only so useful.

A loud crash could be heard, not too far away. It resembled the sound of a thick metal rod hitting a stone wall, hard. Not even two seconds after, a siren echoed throughout the Glade. It could mean only one thing. Grievers.

"We have to hide. Now."

Newt pulled Thomas by his hand. "The forest."

They had no other options. They were quite literally standing in the middle of a plain piece of land, and the grass was way too short to hide in it. Thomas' survival instincts took over, and he ran as fast as he could with Newt tailing on his arm. Everything else blurred around him. They didn't slow down once they arrived their destination, no, they kept going and going until there wasn't so much as a shadow of the Glade seen through the trees. A large oak stood before them, surrounded by several large bushes. This was probably the best hiding spot they could possibly find.

Getting through the bushes was easier than ever before, adrenaline numbing all responses of pain. Had he not seen it with his two eyes, Thomas wouldn't have believed the bushes had large thorns protecting them.

"Be quiet," Thomas commanded Newt, who was breathing quite heavily. Newt took a few larger breaths before getting it under control. Thomas himself had remained motionless, listening carefully to the surroundings. The birds sang. A few insects crawled on the ground, their feet making a noise upon stepping onto a dry leaf. No large metallic monsters making their way through the forest. He let out a sigh of relief. "I think we're good."

Newt nodded, having come to the same conclusion. He leaned his back against the bark of the tree, hugged his knees close. "I can't believe this is happening." The words were barely a whisper.

Thomas followed Newt's actions, making himself a place next to the blond. A weak agreement was all he managed to say out loud.

Not even a minute had passed when the screams reached their ears. The Gladers. Newt's back straightened as he shot a look at the general direction of the Glade. His eyebrows were knit together, his eyes in a squint. "We can't stay here, all safe, when they need our help. We have to go out there and help them."

It made zero sense for them to even think about going back. There was a higher chance of them getting killed than staying alive, should they leave their current position. "I agree."

They jogged their way out of the forest, this time more apprehensive of the damage the branches of trees left on their skin. Once they reached the large area of nothingness, their pace slowed to a stop. It was too high of a risk to run across it, as they could be seen from all around.

When another wave of frightful screams reached their ears, they forgot all the dangers ahead, and ran.

In the distance, far away, the undoubtable shadow of a Griever appeared, its moves robust and abrupt. From the endless abyss that was his mouth, the figure of a human dangled, his legs and arms unmoving. Dead.

Thomas couldn't move. What if the Griever saw them and decided to kill them, too? He prayed to the stars it would pass. He had dealt with them long enough to last a lifetime.

A tear escaped Newt's eyes. He looked away, so Thomas couldn't see. Was he scared? Did he recognise the person the Griever took?

The seconds dragged on. The Griever had no hurry to leave, although it indeed was moving towards the exit. When it finally disappeared from view, Thomas said, "Let's go."

The Middle was a mess. The roofs of some of the lower buildings had collapsed, and a few buildings had been destroyed completely. The Gladers themselves, at least those who'd dared to come out of hiding, were shouting at each other. "Quiet!" Newt ordered, sparks flying from his eyes. "Where's Gally?"

"Are you okay?!" Galileo stepped into the view from behind the corner of a building bearing a lot of damage. His clothes were dirty; he'd likely hidden himself in the fields.

"Are _you_ okay?" Newt echoed the question, hugging Galileo. "Did you make it to the hideout?"

Galileo shook his head. "No. I was too far away, so I had to compromise."

"I'm glad you're alive," Newt whispered. Then, he pulled away. "The Griever. What happened?" he asked from the audience. "Did you fight it?"

A young, blond boy shouted, "Are you serious? Fight? We barely stayed alive _hiding_. You want us to fight it?!"

Another one said, "We were all hiding out in the Homestead when the damn thing shot right through the wall. Started throwing things at it, everything we had, so we could distract it enough to escape. We... it grabbed Chuck. We managed to get him free, but Jeff, who was in the very front of the line pulling on Chuck, got taken instead. When it got him, it left."

The figure he'd seen... had it really been Jeff?

Clint's voice came from somewhere the middle of the crowd. "Guess I'm back to being the Keeper."


	20. Chapter 20

Five badly damaged buildings, three without roofs, four with minimal damage. Five shanks injured, one taken. Four Gates, all of them open. Those were the statistics after everyone had calmed down enough for their brains to function. The day, although pleasant exactly like it used to be, was cancelled for all intents and purposes.

Normally, Thomas hated doing nothing, wasting away the time. On this particualr day, he didn't mind. Lying there, in Newt's room, staring at the ceiling and dozing in and out of sleep sounded better than great for the time being.

Newt didn't share the idea, which was why Thomas was in the room alone. The blond thought they had to call a Meeting, discuss everything that had just happened. "You don't have to come," he'd said to Thomas before leaving. "This is probably bringing back all sorts of awful memories to you."

Ever since Thomas had stayed in the Maze for the night, he'd been scared to death that one day a Griever would get inside the Glade. It'd sounded irrational and pathetic every time the thought had crossed his mind, so he'd never told anyone about it. But it had always been there, in the back of his mind. And now it had come true.

At some point during the day, Thomas' stomach growled. With a disapproving look, Thomas got himself on his feet. From the Kitch, he grabbed a few sandwiches and cucumbers. The Eating Area wasn't completely deserted as he'd expected. Newt and Galileo were there, chatting, seemingly unaware of Thomas' arrival. That couldn't be. Thomas cleared his throat. "What a lovely day."

The two raised their heads. Newt's frown disappeared when he noticed Thomas. "Is this the first time you've come out of the house?"

Thomas sat right next to Newt and across Galileo. "Is it that obvious?"

"Damn right it is. It's not like you to waste the day away," Galileo said after he finished chewing his mouthful. He'd taken himself sandwiches as well, but Newt had chosen in favour of apples and pears.

"How do you even know... oh." Awkward. "So, what happened in the Meeting? Any new decisions I should be aware of?" he quickly diverted the topic.

Newt played with an apple, gently pushing it from one end of the table to the other. "Not really. Everybody was so shaken up about the incident that they made hardly any sense."

"You're forgetting the worst part," Galileo said, throwing the half-eaten sandwich on the table. "They want us to start making sacrifices to the Grievers so they'd leave us alone. As in, send one shank a day to certain death. They're desperate to feel a little safer, and I get that, but this idea is off the shuck charts."

"We only have two choices: it's either that or killing every invading Griever. Considering we aren't nearly strong enough to kill even one, not to mention dozens, their idea kind of makes sense." Newt added quickly. "Although it's incredibly immoral."

"You've got a point," Thomas admitted. "But it's not like we'd have any volunteers. How are you going to choose who to sacrifice?"

Galileo and Newt exchanged looks. Newt said, "We were planning on starting from those who've been to the Slammer most frequently."

Thomas clenched his fists, his eyebrows drawn together. "You're going to kill people based on how well they followed the rules that _you two_ made? I thought you guys were better than that."

That night, Thomas wasn't the one to start the conversation between him and Newt. He lay there, in his sleeping bag, his back towards Newt's bed.

It took perhaps fifteen minutes before Newt cracked. "We have no other choice," he said, his voice full of the need for Thomas to understand. "There's literally nothing else we can do. We aren't capable of fighting them off, and you know that as well as I do."

Thomas puffed out a short breath, unwillingly turned himself to face Newt. "There are no more shanks coming up the Box. You're going to run out of Gladers to sacrifice sooner or later, and then what?"

"We don't know for sure that the Box—"

"Oh come on," Thomas interrupted him, frustrated. "It hasn't gone down in weeks. We haven't been getting our weekly supplies. What makes you think—"

"Hope is all I have." The words were quieter than anything else Newt had said. Newt had his hands under his head to support it; the pillow seemed to not be enough. The blanket was a tangled mess on the very edge of the bed.

Thomas knew what he had to say, but he also knew how Newt wouldn't take it lightly. "There is another way."

The hurt and disbelief in Newt's eyes made Thomas almost sorry he had said anything at all. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"But think about it," Thomas pleaded, trying to talk some sense into him. "You don't know what happened with all the escaped Gladers. They might've found a way out. That could also be the reason why they never came back. How probable do you think it is that a few Grievers managed to kill every single one of those boys, especially if they stuck together?"

Newt's hands were twitching, as if he was barely refraining from placing them on his ears and blocking out the sound of Thomas talking. "They're all dead. There's no way they managed to escape."

"How in the blue moon do you know that?" Thomas fired back. "Did you personally see each and every single one of them—"

"Don't—"

"—die?"

Newt was up from his bed before Thomas could even acknowledge he had moved at all. His hands were visibly shaking, but his gaze was fierce, his brows furrowed. "You have no right to say these things, no shuck right! You have no bloody idea what I've had to go through! You weren't there!" He paced the tiny room, and subconsciously Thomas sat up straight to make even more room for him. "Fifteen of them died, three of whom's death I can verify. A dozen shanks against God knows how many Grievers? Yeah, no way in hell. And then you come, years later, not even knowing the first thing about anything, and are saying _oh, what if they lived_. Do you not think I've spent years considering this, thinking through every possible angle? But there's one thing that's convinced me they all must really be dead. If they lived," he made the smallest of pauses, "then why didn't they come back to get us?" Despite his best efforts, his voice quivered. The blond shook his head, trying not to think about it.

Thomas had trouble finding the right words. "It doesn't mean the same will happen to us."

"You always were so goddamn optimistic." It was meant to be an insult.

Thomas pushed the sleeping bag away to stand up. "And I can bet you always were this goddamn stubborn! How can you not see that by staying here our chances of survival are quite literally, you guessed it, zero, but if we go out there, our odds infinitely higher!" He crossed his arms, struggling to keep an angry face when all he wanted to do was stop hurting Newt.

Newt pressed his lips into a thin line and just looked at Thomas for a few long seconds. He opened and closed his mouth several times. "You're impossible."

"Says the person because of whom the shuck word was invented."

An odd expression flashed on Newt's face, as if he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. "I hate you."

"You don't mean that."

The blond gave a long sigh. "I swear, sometimes I wish I did. You're going to be the death of me one day." He hid his hands in his pockets.

"Be careful with your words," Thomas muttered. More loudly, he said, "Just... please think about what I said."

Newt's back straightened. "No promises."

Now that things had calmed down a bit, the atmosphere got awkward quick. Thomas would've suggested going on a walk, had he not been afraid of repeating yesterday's flow of events. Newt's expression conveyed he was thinking the same thing. "We could... go inspect the damage the Griever did on the buildings?" Thomas offered. This way they wouldn't have to leave the Middle.

"That's a good idea," Newt agreed, relief in his voice. The room was way too small to fit the two of them in there at once anyway; they needed some fresh air.

Newt slipped out of the door first, and Thomas followed him moments later, having blown out the candle inside the lantern. A fire was not something they could deal with right now. The emotions inside the room had warmed it up pretty good, Thomas realised once outside. The air that had been warm mere hours before was now chilly and entirely not too friendly.

The sun had set, the sky showing off its fading orange tones. The fields around Newt's house seemed vast and far too dark; Thomas was glad to get away from there.

The cold didn't bother Newt. His skin remained untouched by goosebumps, his voice didn't waver as he spoke. "I love evenings. They're always so... peaceful."

"I think I'm more of a morning person myself," Thomas commented. "The rising sun brings new possibilities with it. A new beginning."

The corners of Newt's lips tugged upwards. "Of course your opinion would differ from mine."

Thomas shrugged. "We're very different people."

A small figure in the distance was lighting up a lantern. For some reason, Thomas was surprised by this. He'd known that Sloppers were in charge of that, but he'd never actually seen them doing it. "Why did you even create a rank such as Sloppers? It's a bit degrading, don't you think?"

"Believe it or not, some shanks actually want to be Sloppers."

"And what about the ones who would prefer to be something else?" Thomas pressed on. "What about them?"

"They just have to deal with it. Why are you asking this all of a sudden?"

Thomas wasn't too sure himself. "I was curious."

"Yeah," Newt said with a small smile, "you tend to be that quite often."

"Hey!" Thomas protested. "I can be very incurious at times."

Newt raised his eyebrows. "Name one instance."

"Like that time when..." He couldn't think of an occasion. His mind drew blank.

Newt laughed. He actually laughed, this rich sound escaping his throat. Thomas wasn't sure if he'd ever heard him laugh this way, but it made his heart warm. "Typical."

The brunet couldn't help but laugh himself. "The fact that I can't recall any instances this very second does not mean they don't exist."

"Keep telling that to yourself."

It was difficult to argue against a statement like that, which was why Thomas settled with a simple smile.

They turned a corner at about the centre of the Middle, to the left. They'd been lucky the Griever hadn't gotten farther in. Thomas' smile faltered and vanished when he remembered the reason of its departure. Jeff. It was hard to believe a full day had passed since that incident. "You didn't... tie anyone up for the sacrifice, did you?" Thomas asked. "Please tell me you didn't." The sky was all dark now, the stars offering small amounts of light. If the Grievers were going to come, it'd have to happen soon.

The jovial mood was gone. Newt said, "I think that building over there is the first one the Griever damaged."

His refusal to give him a straight answer confirmed Thomas' suspicions. "Who?" he asked, his voice strained.

Newt let his head fall back, and he let out a low breath. "Klavier. Surprisingly enough, he gave in pretty easily. God knows this guy has some serious problems with depression either way, so he probably saw it as a way out."

"This is so shuck wrong," Thomas said, leaning against a wall. "There aren't enough letters in the alphabet to describe you how wrong that is."

The words were still hanging up in the air when the violent sound of sirens destroyed the memory of them.

"Come with me," Newt shouted over the sirens. Not waiting for his response, he grabbed Thomas by his hand and dragged him along, not giving him a choice. A small part of Thomas' mind made a disturbed note of how often he was actually pulled along by someone who had grabbed his hand. Like he couldn't move on his own. Despite the thought, Thomas let Newt's hand slid into his.

Dozens of other Gladers had come out their houses, running mindlessly in all sorts of directions. Thomas screamed, unable to watch the developing chaos, "Run to the forests or Gardens! Don't stay in the Middle!" Although the sirens had now stopped, the screams the Gladers produced were loud enough to erase Thomas' words from existence.

When Newt took a turn, the panicking crowd got left behind. Did this mean that the sacrifice didn't work? Would the sirens have gone off either way?

They ran straight past the Kitch... to the Slammer? Thomas couldn't ask anything before being pushed into the god-awful pit. His hands were supposed to soften the landing, but there was no need. The entire stony, uneven ground had been covered with blankets and pillows. Thomas rolled himself to the side so Newt wouldn't land on top of him.

Newt's arrival was a lot more graceful than Thomas' had been. The blond reached up and brought the hatch down. It was a miracle anything could be seen at all during this time of the day, but there must've been some lanterns nearby which emitted enough light to make out the most basic of figures. Newt sat in front of Thomas. "I thought of this a few days back. I don't think we'll be seen from here."

"That's actually pretty clever," Thomas admitted. He leaned back, pleasantly surprised to feel the walls covered with pillows. "Do the sirens mean that Klavier wasn't enough to... keep the Griever away?" The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but they needed to be voiced out loud.

There was no way Newt didn't catch Thomas' disapproving tone. "I don't think so. The sirens are supposed to go off at the first sight of a Griever, as in, the thing might not even have entered the Glade yet before the alarms sound. There's really no way of knowing where it is at the moment. We've just got to wait." Newt lay down on his back, his face towards the sky. Then, in a whisper, he said, "I thought this was never gonna happen again." He was referring to something other than the situation at hand.

"What do you mean? Has this happened before?" Thomas couldn't believe his ears. Why had he not known about it? How had they managed to keep the Grievers away all those years back?

Newt didn't answer for a while. "I meant that I thought I'd never live long enough to see all of my friends die for the second time, but now it seems it's inevitable. I hate this place so much, you have no idea. It's like living inside a nightmare." Newt placed a hand under his head and the other on his stomach, star-gazing the best he could through the hatch above. "To be quite honest with you, I should've died a long time ago. Life only ever brings me suffering, and I don't understand why anyone should go through that, including me."

Thomas' heart broke at Newt's confession, but there was nothing he could do to make him feel better. "You're one of the strongest shanks I've ever met in my life. I guess the tougher you are, the more life tests you." He wanted to say all the right words, make the awful thoughts go away, but he was only human. The words he managed to produce weren't nearly good enough to ease a fraction of Newt's pain.

"I'd rather be weak and safe than tough and constantly in danger. You know, I actually convinced myself that we're safe here. For years, almost nothing happened. And now..."

Thomas moved to lay down beside Newt to see all the same stars Newt was seeing. It was so easy to forget about the troubles of the past weeks and just be. "You're going to make it through this. I'll make sure of it."

Although Thomas couldn't see it, he was comfident the other boy smirked. "With all the luck we've been having, I think it's pretty safe to say you're going to die off before me."

"Hey!" Thomas protested, the slightest dose of humour in his voice. "That's not fair. It's not my fault I've died so many times."

Newt turned a little more serious. "I've thought about that, too. That it's not your fault you went into the Maze and never returned. Perhaps it's the Creators' fault, perhaps they _made_ you act like that. But we'll never know, will we? We just have the speculations."

"That must be the case. I can't imagine ever leaving you behind willingly when I know you're not safe here."

Newt turned to look at Thomas, his expression unreadable. "It means a lot, you saying that."

Thomas explained, "It's a strange feeling, knowing you've done something but not actually remembering. It's like when you're a kid and you do some stupid stuff and then, when you're all grown up, your parents talk about all the things you did. And you just can't remember, as if you have the memory somewhere in your mind, hidden away, but still there. You can almost reach it, but not quite. And it drives me shuck crazy. I don't think I've ever wanted something as bad as to be able to remember my past." Now that the words were out there, Thomas realised he was feeling exactly that. He hadn't acknowledged it to himself before.

"I... don't think I know what you're going through," Newt said quietly. "I don't much mind if I remember my past or not because I've had the chance to make enough memories to last a lifetime. All I really want, I think, is to be safe. And if I can't be safe, I want to be dead. I'm so shuck tired of constantly being on the edge, trying to make the right decisions and failing anyway. The pressure is too much, you know?"

Thomas' throat closed itself for a while to keep the feelings at bay. How are you supposed to act when your only friend tells you they'd prefer to die rather than to live? "I didn't know you feel this way," was all he managed in the end.

"Nobody really knows. I think Gally's suspecting, but he can't be sure. I haven't told him for some reason. Guess I didn't want to burden him."

"And you wanted to burden me?" Thomas asked, a sad flicker of humour in there.

Newt gave a smile. "What, how can I let you go unburdened when I myself am under more burdens than one should ever experience? Can't let you have things easy, Tommy-boy."

"I like the nickname," Thomas admitted. "You used it once before, too, didn't you?"

Newt chuckled. It had a hollowness to it, dark ropes of sorrow dimming its glow. "Yeah, suppose I did. Wasn't planning on it, though. It just... happened."

Thomas smiled. "Everything just happens with us two, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, guess it does." Newt shook his head as in complete bewilderment. He had a hard time suppressing the laughter in his voice. "How come it took me this long to realise? Things just happen with us two. What an amazing concept. I don't think things happen with anyone else, don't you agree?"

Thomas, playing along, nodded. "Definitely. It'd be foolish to even suspect that. I mean, who's to say they aren't robots? You can never be too sure."

Newt added an extra layer of wonder to his tone. "All of them... robots. You've got a point in there. Perhaps it's the same as it was with the bird; you don't know it's a machine until you punch it."

"Sounds like a plan." Thomas burst out laughing. The mere idea of going around and punching anyone who comes across was too ridiculous.

"I agree. First thing in the morning, we'll go out there and show them they shouldn't mess with the only humans alive."

Thomas said, "Damn right." It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. "Such an interesting idea, though, being surrounded by robots."

"Us two against the world."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

A glint appeared in Newt's eyes. He leaned himself on his right elbow, and before Thomas understood what was going on, Newt kissed him. His mouth was warm, and the stubble on his chin grazed Thomas' skin. The kiss itself was cautious, gentle at first, but with neither of the boys satisfied, it became more passionate, more needy. Newt rolled on top of Thomas, his right foot between Thomas' feet, his hands supporting him on either side of Thomas' face.

When the kiss broke, Newt whispered, "You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that."

Newt had barely finished his sentence before Thomas kissed him again.

They untangled themselves the moment they heard a third voice. "Oh dear, what do my two eyes have to see. This was not what I expected when I signed up for the job." Ralph, a thirteen year old, had covered his eyes with his hands. "My eyes are in need of a proper bleach."

Newt and Thomas shared looks, and burst out laughing. "What is it you came to do?" Newt asked, a smile still on his face.

"Um... Galileo sent me here to, um, tell you that Klavier was taken-"

"Yeah, okay, that's what we were expecting."

"—and Henry."

Thomas asked, "The Builder? Why?"

The boy shrugged. "I don't know."

When Thomas' gaze finally caught sight of Newt, his heart stopped. The scene triggered a memory of his of the first time he ever met Newt. It was dark, and they were in the middle of the forest. Thomas had hidden himself, and Newt had come after him to find him. Among the first things Newt said to him was the phrase, "Wait, you're not Henry." Which could only mean that this guy Henry had been a close friend of his. And now he was gone.

"Okay, thank you. Tell Galileo we'll come soon."

Ralph seemed relieved, as he nearly tripped over his feet in his hurry to leave.

An uncomfortable silence took over the small space between the two, and Thomas couldn't look at Newt. What was he supposed to say? Was there anything he could say at all to make this better? "I think the Grievers are taking one more person each day," was all he could croak out. It hurt his own two ears to hear himself say those absurd words instead of offering any sort of condolences. "It's going to be three tomorrow. Four after that. We're not going to survive this if we don't go outside and at least try to escape."

Quite unexpectedly, Newt rested his head on Thomas' shoulder. He let out a long sigh. "At least this hasn't changed."

And although Thomas didn't really understand what Newt meant by this, he didn't ask. Sometimes words left unsaid are a lot more meaningful than those which are forced out of your mouth.

They stayed like this for a long time, staring out of the hatch and observing birds flying by. Another beautiful day was up ahead, but now that they knew what it brought with, they preferred the storms and rain. You can fight with weather, but you can't fight with giant metallic creatures of the night. Thomas blinked. Can't fight with... but he'd done that, hadn't he? The night he spent in the Maze, he'd trapped a Griever between two closing walls, which had eventually crushed him. His heart beat faster as his thought developed. They could do this again, with another set of moving walls. The Runners could surely pull this off, perhaps a few non-Runners too. The Maze changed itself every night hundreds of times, so it shouldn't be too hard of a job to find two suitable walls. As he was about to communicate his discovery, Newt sat up straight, and said, "We should go." With his voice so low, so quiet, Thomas merely nodded. They could talk about this another time.

Thomas climbed out first, and he helped Newt to follow, extending his right hand to his to pull him up. Once on the ground, Thomas didn't let go of Newt's hand. Instead, he held it with care. Newt didn't seem to notice.

He liked this boy. This broken, lanky, wreck of a human being. He liked the way the sun kissed his dark blond hair and how he was two centimeters taller than him. He liked how he moved, how he spoke, how he was so incredibly strong that he had managed to survive all these years of pain and suffering. He had noticed all these things before, but he'd never allowed himself to actually think about them, because some part of his mind found it impossible for Newt to want to be with him after all the heartache Thomas had caused.

They parted their ways not much later, Thomas going to grab something to eat and Newt going to find Galileo. The goodbye was simple and too short for Thomas' liking, but he sucked it up. Newt had just lost a friend. It wasn't the time to focus on details.

On the door to the Kitch, Thomas ran into Don. The latter balanced five sandwiches, two apples, and a long cucumber on his two hands. "Just the man I wanted to see," he said, his mouth half full, probably from another sandwich. His words were barely understandable, what with his thick accent being accompanied by loud noises of chewing. "Listen," he began once again when he'd finished his bite. "We're going to do this today. I already told everyone that something big is happening in the Party Zone real soon, and now all I need is our crew to go there and do this."

Thomas had taken a few steps back to let Don pass by him, but since he wasn't moving, the distance between them was uncomfortable. "Why now?" was all he could ask, stalling.

"Why not now?" Don changed the way he held onto his food, as one apple nearly fell. "We're not going to have anyone to tell the truth to in a couple of days. We have to do this right this instant." Don's overgrown, dark hair was in the way of his eyes, but he either wasn't bothered by it or he was already used to it. "Try to get your ass over there in about ten minutes, okay?" With that, he happily walked away and soon disappeared behind a corner.

Thomas entered the Kitch. He had mixed feelings about this, and he wasn't sure which he should listen to. Don had a point, but on the other hand, Newt would probably hate him for the rest of his life. Although he knew what he was going to do with no doubt in his mind, he couldn't help but feel bad.

"Remember how I told you about somebody constantly filling the cupboards with flour?"

Thomas turned around, a knife still in hand from cutting cheese, startled by the sudden sound. Frypan. Of course it was Frypan. "Yeah, I remember. I experienced it firsthand when I was doing my tryouts. Why?"

Frypan walked to a drawer, pulled it out, and grabbed a loaf of bread, whereas Thomas just stood there and eyed his actions. "That doesn't happen anymore. I shuck knew it was Lahey all this time, but he always denied it, so I couldn't get the confirmation I needed." He proceeded to open another drawer to grab a knife, and then he cut the loaf of bread into neat little slices. "Galileo killed him. He killed my Lahey, and I will never forgive him for that."

Thomas slowly continued his work, but he kept his eye on Frypan, just in case. He seemed to be in a bad place at the moment, and Thomas wasn't one to let his guard down.

"You know, there are more shanks like me out there. Those who hate Galileo, I mean. We should do something about that."

Thomas' blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

A wicked smile flashed on Frypan's face. "Can't let him get away with all the things he's done, that'd be unfair. And we all know that the Glade is all about justice."

"I don't think that's a good idea. He's gone through a lot himself, you have no idea," Thomas said, but his words fell on deaf ears.

"I have an idea of what I've had to go through, and that's quite enough for me." He was now done buttering and decorating the sandwich, and he made his way to the door. "I can't let that bastard get away with what he did to Lahey."

Thomas felt as if this day couldn't get any worse. Newt's friend died, Frypan was plotting revenge against one of the only living friends Newt still had left, and the walls still hadn't closed, meaning that the Grievers would sneak into the Glade again this night to snatch three more Gladers. Really, what else could go wrong?

Thomas arrived to the scene five minutes late. As he'd expected, nothing was yet going on. Don stood on a makeshift stage, trying to catch everyone's attention. "Could you please shut your holes! This is important." The mumbles and murmurs continued, although more quietly. Don, satisfied with the result, didn't waste any time. "We have something important to tell you, and I really need all of your attention. Thank you. As you know..."

Newt swam next to Thomas, his brows furrowed. He whispered, "What's he doing? What's all this about?"

"He... well..." Thomas couldn't find the words. What was he supposed to tell him? That Don was in the process of turning his whole world upside down? "I'm not sure."

Newt cast a suspicious glance Thomas' way but said nothing. Instead, he stared at Don, listened to his entirely too long of an introduction to the topic.

"...since you wouldn't believe me anyway if I'd just come out and say it, here's Thomas to explain things to you."

The crowd parted in front of him as if on cue, and Thomas caught Newt's confused look. Thomas leaned in close to Newt and whispered to his ear, "I'm so sorry for this, but I really think this is the only way." Forcing the words out was hard, much harder than it would've been if they hadn't kissed. But he had to do this.

Newt turned his head so he could lock gazes with Thomas. His beautiful blue eyes still had the glint of confusion in them, but now they also conveyed hurt. He didn't want to believe what Thomas was about to do. "I don't understand."

Thomas hadn't got the time nor the willpower to stay behind and explain the situation to Newt; the crowd was already getting restless. He had to go up to the stage, now. And he went. One foot in front of the other, one step and then the next. He didn't look back.

"Hurry up or we're gonna lose their attention," Don hissed once Thomas was near enough to be able to hear it.

He frowned but didn't say anything. He climbed up the wooden steps when Don had climbed down, and he stood in front of dozens upon dozens of questioning gazes. He cleared his throat. "For those of you don't know, my name's Thomas and I'm a Runner." A few shanks laughed, as if this was supposed to be a joke. Who wouldn't know Thomas? "I've been out of these walls more times than I can count, and stand here today to describe to you what it looks like. Because trust me, you have no idea."  
Thomas looked everywhere but the direction of Newt. He had a creeping suspicion he couldn't do what he was supposed to if he saw what Newt's expression was like. Hurt and betrayed. "When you first go out, you see the twists and turns of a Maze, but you all already knew that. What you don't know is that those said twists and turns never end. That's all there is out there: a giant, confusing, and ever-changing Maze." He made a small pause. "Let me be clear here. The Death Circle doesn't exist." He did say more than that, but nothing could be heard, as the crowd went wild. It was obvious they didn't know how to react to this, but they knew they had to do something, so they settled for talking loudly to each other and screaming a few random words out loud.  
"Let me talk," Thomas shouted over all the others. Again, they listened, but just because they didn't know what the hell they were supposed to do in this situation. "There is a reason why you haven't been told the truth, so getting angry won't accomplish anything. However, we've reached a time where that secret has more negative sides to it than positive, and that's why I'm telling you all this. The walls aren't closing anymore, and the Grievers are taking one more shank with them each day. Soon, we'll all be dead. What I'm asking you to do is consider this: would you rather stay here and die or go out there and possibly find a way out? If you want to come with, pack up some food and water. We're leaving in about three hours."

Thomas stepped down the stage and received several pats on the back and well dones. The shouts exploded into new heights, but Thomas didn't care. It wasn't his job to calm them down, and frankly, they had a right to be angry. He distanced himself from the mass of people as fast as he could, heading to the Kitch to grab his share of the food with him before everyone else stormed the place. Frypan and a few of his cooks had prepared sandwiches and bottles of water on multiple tables. Convenient.

Thomas returned to Newt's room to pack up the few things he could call his. He pushed everything into a large bag, not stopping to make sure they were in the optimal position. Although he didn't want to admit it to himself, he was hoping to get out of there before Newt came. There was no need to make things even more complicated than they already were.

Life had different plans.

As Thomas was busy reaching his hand under Newt's bed to retrieve his lost sock, the door creaked open. A quick glance revealed Newt standing there. "Hey," Thomas said, frowning. Where was the damn sock? He'd been through almost the whole floor by now.

Newt nodded hello. He carefully went on to lie on his bed; he didn't want to disturb whatever Thomas was doing at the moment. "The other shanks like to clean the floor by brushing the dust off. You might want to learn a thing or two from them."

That was a joke. Why wasn't he mad? Hadn't Thomas betrayed his trust less than half an hour ago? "You have it all wrong: they should learn a thing or two from me," Thomas said, all important, a nervous smile present on his face. His fingers brushed against something that certainly wasn't his sock, and on reflex pulled his hand away. After a half a second of convincing himself that the thing hiding there couldn't possibly be as bad as Thomas imagined, he pulled it out. Papers. No, _maps_. From the time Thomas had brought them there to investigate. He had forgotten all about it, and judging by Newt's expression, he had, too. The two stared at the maps for a good three seconds in a stunned silence. "This isn't my sock," Thomas said, disbelief evident in his voice.

Newt couldn't help but chuckle at that. "You have always been quite observant."

Thomas laughed once he came to his senses. "I can't believe I just said that," he said, placing the maps on the ground next to him. He made sure none of them were on top of each other, which meant that when he finished, the whole floor was full of them.

"Can I ask why?" they asked in unison. Then, they shared a look and smiled. "You first," Newt said.

"Why aren't you mad at me?" With all the maps now covering the floor, Thomas stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at Newt.

Newt's back was against the wall, his long legs stretched out before him. "I... came to the realisation that I simply don't care. We're going to die in here sooner or later, so why not quicken the process, you know?"

Thomas wasn't expecting that kind of answer. At all. "Don't say that." There was so much to say, but he had no idea how to put it all into words. How is one supposed to translate their brain's impulses so it would make sense to another human? Words are the only way of doing it, and that's far from perfect. It had to be, or Thomas wouldn't have sounded so dumb all the time.

"Anyway," Newt said, flashing him a smile of a broken man, "what I wanted to ask was what are you going to do with all the maps now that you've managed to lay them all out? Is there a reason for you doing that or did you just think it would be fun?"

Although Thomas would've liked to talk some more about Newt's morbid thoughts, he let it go. It wasn't the right time. Instead, he raised his eyebrows. He was incredibly relieved that Newt wasn't exceedingly mad at him. "Do I ever do anything without a reason?" He shook his head. "Don't answer that." Newt laughed, and Thomas continued, "My thinking was that there's no way the Creators would just throw us into this place without any chance to get out, right? If their goal would've been keeping us still at this place, they would've built a giant wall or even a dome around the Glade, and then we'd be effectively stuck here. But no, there's a Maze. What I'm hearing here is a challenge. I'm sure they left at least some sort of clues for us to find that would help us to get out." _It just sucks that we discovered the remaining maps so shuck late._

Newt nodded, his expression blank. "You do have your own logic going on there, but I personally don't think that's the case. You're free to stare at the maps all you want, though. We've still got quite a lot of time before we leave, so who knows, maybe you do figure something out."

Thomas shot him an enthusiastic smile, despite Newt's less than supportive tone of voice. "Damn right."

He tried everything he could think of. He stacked different maps on top of each other and looked through them while a light was shining behind them. He looked for similarities in the maps that were done in the same sections but on different days. He tried to piece them together like a puzzle, connecting the lines at the ends of the papers. Nothing worked, and his ideas were running out. The whole time, Newt observed Thomas' efforts quietly, every now and then smirking as if thinking, _I knew it wouldn't work._

Thomas pushed the maps away from him and sat there, in the middle of the room, devastated. "I can't crack this."

"It's because what you tried just now has been tried hundreds of times before. If they couldn't get it to work, how are you supposed to?" Although his words were comforting, they had a hint of I-told-you-so in it, and it didn't help Thomas' situation at all.

Thomas combed a hand through his hair. He was back at his usual place, sitting before the nightstand and looking towards the door. "I hate this."

"Tell me about it." Newt changed his position so that he was now leaning against a corner of the room, his body directed toward Thomas. "There's not much you can do with the maps in the first place."

"That's the thing! If there's so little to do with them, how come we haven't figured it out how to—" Thomas scrambled to his feet, grabbing certain maps. Now that they were all a huge mess around the room, the task was more complicated than it should've been, but he pulled through. He gathered the maps of different sections of the Maze done on the same day into piles. Then, he went on to place them all properly on top of each other, the right way up. He took the very first pile in line, the one that had been done on the first day of the month. He held the entire pile against the light emitting from the lantern, the incredibly thin paper allowing it to shine through. Strong lines differentiated from the others, shaping the letters L and R. Thomas couldn't believe his eyes. He would've shown this discovery to Newt, had he not been in too much of a hurry to repeat the process with the next pile in line. Sure enough, a distinct L and R popped out on the page. Were all of them going to be like this? No, the next on was an R and an S. This pattern of R's, L's, and S's. went on for the entirety of the 30 days. "What month is it?" Thomas asked. "March, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh." March has 31 days in it, but Thomas only had the records of 30 days. He was sure it was no big deal—they'd probably see the end coming from far away anyway. "I cracked the code."

Thomas helped Newt pack his things, and he grabbed some food for him from the Kitch. As he'd suspected, the place was overrun with all the Gladers trying to get their portion. It was a miracle he got to the food as fast as he did.

Time for the departure came faster than Thomas would've expected. He was determined. _We have the directions, we have the food. We can do this._ When Thomas and Newt arrived the front of the East Wall, a couple of shanks were already there. Chuck, Don, and Linima all said their hellos, a thing they wouldn't have done mere days before. Their common goal of getting out of the Maze had tied them into a much tighter group than ever before.

Thomas dropped the bag he was holding, and Newt put his next to Thomas'. A quick look back over the plain land told them they had to wait quite some time there, so Thomas went ahead and sat down next to their belongings, the grass soft under him. Newt preferred to stand.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Chuck said, staring towards the East Gate. He was sat directly in front of it, his back to the Glade.

Linima, leaning against the wall, gave an unfriendly laugh. "You've been here for a month, maybe two. I've been here for two years. It should be me who's saying that, not you."

"Leave the kid alone," Newt interjected. "He has the right to feel excited about this as much as the next shank."

Don, quite a bit farther from the group, didn't say anything. He gazed into the distance, his legs brought close to his body and back leaning against the wall. The position he was sitting in didn't seem very comfortable, but he probably didn't notice.

Thomas himself was calm. He knew it'd change the moment they actually left the Glade, but for now, he enjoyed the feeling of peace. Nobody was fighting with each other, they were all one man. It's rare something like this happens, which is why he wasn't surprised when the peace got interrupted a mere hour later.

There were more of them there now, perhaps 50, waiting for the rest. The remaining dozen shanks were walking closer. One could almost see the massive storm clouds above their heads. They were angry... but why?

Frypan was in that group. Of course he was. He had been nothing but angry ever since Lahey died. "Galileo! Where are you, you piece of klunk?" Piver called out. "We would like to have a word with you."

Newt, who was sitting next to Thomas, tensed up. "What do you want from him?" He asked, frowning.

"There you are!" Piver exclaimed, his words sounding on top of Newt's. "Come on, come here."

Galileo, massive circles under his eyes and hair a complete mess, made his way to them. "What—"

More than sixty shanks around and nobody did anything when Piver punched Galileo hard in the stomach. Newt was up in an instant, Thomas not far behind. "What's wrong with you?" Newt shouted, running the best he could with his limp. "Have you lost your mind?" The rest of the dozen that had been in the same group with Piver and Frypan formed a wall between Galileo and the rest. They had planned this. From between the shanks guarding them, Galileo could be seen, fighting back. He'd managed to throw a couple of punches himself, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind as of who would win that fight. Piver was a tall, built guy. Galileo had nothing against him.

"Why are you doing this?!" Newt tried going around the human barrier, but Klerre, the shank who was on the very end of the line, pushed him back.

"We had to follow his goddamn rules to the most absurd of points, and even then we got thrown into the Slammer because apparently he wanted to remind us of who is the one in charge. You're not in charge anymore!" Garrett directed the last sentence to Galileo, his voice louder. "The mere thought of having to let you go free without any punishment for what you've done is unacceptable! You've got to pay."

Thomas spoke to Frypan, who was standing in the line before him. "Why are you here? You're not like this." His heart was beating much faster now that Galileo was not making any kinds of noises. He couldn't see what Piver was doing to him.

"Are you really asking me that question? He killed Ley, in every sense of the word. Because of him, Ley became a Runner. Because of him, he got bitten. Because of him, he died a death you wouldn't wish upon even your worst enemy." Frypan's expression was vengeful, and he had a fiery spark in his eye.

"Lahey was his own person! He made the choices for himself! Don't treat him like a shuck baby who isn't capable of making any decisions." Thomas was frustrated that he couldn't reason with Frypan, not to mention anyone else in that group.

"Well, I can't treat him in any way at all now, can I?"

Thomas clenched his fists and forced himself to take a few steps back. He was this close to punching Frypan right then and there, but he knew it couldn't be a smart decision.

Newt was shaken up. "Are you going to kill him?" His voice broke.

At that, the row of shanks hesitated. They didn't want to, that wasn't their plan. Newt used that moment to dash around them and reach Galileo and Piver. "Leave him alone! Haven't you done enough?" he said, stepping between Piver and Galileo. "Look at him! You don't want to kill him."

"You have no idea what I want," Piver said, but he backed down. "That guy has messed up my whole life."

"You're a bloody fool if you think that all your problems in life stem from Gally." Newt turned around and crouched down, examining Galileo's hurt figure.

Thomas pushed straight through the human barrier. "You're unbelievable."

The smell of blood lingered in the air. Galileo was curled up on the ground, desperately gasping for air. "We should get going," Piver shouted so everyone could hear. "We don't want to wait for the Grievers to come."

The crowd mumbled in agreement.

Newt opened his mouth and then closed it, staring at the ground. He set his jaw. "Come on, stand up. We've got to leave." But he couldn't. Galileo wasn't able to stand on his two feet, and honestly, he didn't even look all there. His gaze lost focus every now and then, and his left hand was shivering uncontrollably. It was painful to even look at him.

Galileo breathed out, "Leave me behind." To that, Newt responded with a broken cry. Galileo didn't let him talk. "I'm not... fit... to come with. I'll be a nuisance. I'm in... no condition... to escape the Grievers."

Thomas felt uncomfortable. Galileo was right.

"Don't speak such nonsense," Newt whispered, his hand pushing away blood from Galileo's face. "We'll carry you. It's going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay."

Galileo looked over at Thomas for help.

Thomas stepped behind Newt and placed his hands gently on his shoulders. "He's right. We can't bring him with. I'll give you a minute to say your goodbyes."

.oOo.

They were the last ones to leave.

"Together?"

"Together."

And so they stepped into the Maze, side by side, leaving behind the only world they'd ever known and jumping head-first into a new one.

THE END.


End file.
